


Common Law

by Ragazza_Guasto



Series: Bows and Badges [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Certain Male Hooker With A Heart Of Gold, A Really Good Sandwich, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, First Time, Flavoured Beer, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, I made Greg cry, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade first meets Mycroft Holmes, he's not impressed. And first impressions are important. It's not until years later, when Holmes inexplicably starts showing Greg brief glimpses of humanity that Greg warms up to him. And warm up they do, especially after Mycroft shows up at Greg's flat one night looking for a place to hide. One thing leads to another and eventually they come to an understanding of sorts. That is until Greg starts becoming too attached to the aloof Mr. Holmes. What will Greg do when Mycroft calls it quits?</p><p>Welcome to Common Law or alternatively How to Write an Erotic Fanfic and Skip Right Over the Relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breach of the Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [Common Law (translated into Korean)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397907) by [Popover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popover/pseuds/Popover)



>  
> 
> The formerly un-Beat'd Misa managed to snag not one but two awesome sauce betas for this baby and I'd like to thank them both from the bottom of my heart.  
> Thank you to the unfailingly talented [Pringlesaremydivision](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision), whose husband better watch his back lest I steal her away, for inexplicably loving everything I do, being encouraging from start to finish, and for being willing to clean up my terrible punctuation messes. I will squee with you until the end of time.  
> Thank you to [Cupidsbowkisses](http://cupidsbowkisses.tumblr.com/), patron saint of restoring 'U's, for coming out of left field(or perhaps north field is more apt) to become a fucking phenomenal cheerleader and for helping to pad this beast out with much better clarity than I did. At least a thousand words of this thing are yours babe. *hugs*  
> You guys made this fic a thousand times better than it would have been on its own and I can only repay that by writing more smut. I love you both!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting the stage. How the Holmes' came into Greg's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of Greg as a battle weary, twenty year police veteran who's quite sensitive under all his gruff exterior. I hope you like my version of DI Lestrade.

 

 

_March 2004_

 

Greg looked down at the kid strapped to the bed, so deathly pale and sweat soaked, finally still from the sedatives, and wished he could pick and choose which tragedies he was exposed to on the job. Cuffing a university-aged kid to a hospital bed because he’d been found stalking a crime scene, while clearly under the influence, shouldn’t have affected him after all these years, but it did. Mostly because the kid was obviously brilliant; he’d known the mother had poisoned the family with the Sunday dinner after all, before forensics had confirmed it, and all while high as a sodding kite. If they'd listened to him sooner the mad woman wouldn't have been able to jam that knife into her neck...

Greg thought about the kid's posturing, the insults, the blatant attempts at goading, that had eventually given way to desperate pleading. He'd been quickly lead away from the police tape, but had started screaming for Greg to listen. He hadn't. Instead he'd ordered the kid cuffed and tossed into a panda for public intoxication. The poor thing had gone mad and had nearly broken his wrists in the frantic attempt to get away. The mother had taken the opportunity of their distraction to best them; taken the coward's way out before they could discover her heinous crime and charge her with triple murder. Greg wished he knew for sure how the kid had figured it out. Was he an accomplice? Was it dumb luck? His gut said no, that he'd simply overheard the details and reasoned the mother's motive for himself. It really was too bad the kid had been doped up beyond belief.

 _The nurses are going to have hell to pay when you wake up._ He looked down at the cuffs that wrapped those pale wrists and just hoped he didn't MacGyver his way out of them. His body needed the fluids from the IV at the very least. Greg wished they had a name for him. There hadn't been any identification on him and no prints on file.

"Shame," Greg mumbled to the empty room. "I hope you have someone looking out for you, kid." He guiltily allowed himself to brush the sweat soaked curls off his forehead and, with one last look, left the room and the boy to his fate.

 

_December 2004_

 

"Those things will kill you," a low voice spoke beside him. Greg dropped his cigarette in surprise. A large, pale, long-fingered hand reached down and picked it up off the pavement. He looked up in annoyance when, instead of handing it back, the kid popped it into his own mouth. His hand reached out and took Greg’s lighter as well.

"Hey," he snapped.

He took a long, reverent pull- the kind people who'd long been without took- and he turned with a smile. "Thanks," he said and handed the lighter back.

"That wasn't for you," Greg grumbled and pulled another from his pack.

"It _was_ the mother," he said next, as if they were continuing an already established conversation. “I hear she offed herself.”

"Sorry, do I-"

"Holmes," he held out his hand, which Greg instinctively took. It was cold. "You must not remember."

"I don't…" He started to say but he did suddenly recognize him. The kid from the Porter Family murder case, back in the spring. "Yes, you were there."

He looked over the young man, from his leather jacket, not near warm enough for the December chill, to the white shirt, black trousers, and expensive Italian shoes. Though still extremely pale, he did look much better. Clean at least. _Corpse white must just be his default colour,_ he thought absently. _That or he hasn't seen the sun in a long time._

"Quite." He took another drag. "Are you ready to accept my help?"

Greg shook his head, not in denial but in confusion. "Your help with what?"

The kid, Holmes, sighed. "Your case. No offense but I think you could use it."

He ignored the 'no offense' part, even though it clearly meant 'every offense'. "That case was closed almost six months ago."

A sigh with an accompanying eye roll. "Not that one. The Miller Gang shoot-out."

"How do you know about that?" He turned fully towards the bloke, certain he was going to have to arrest him again.

"I need to stay active, you need a consultant," he placed his hand on his own chest, "that's me. Symbiotic relationships work wonderfully in the animal kingdom. Marriages work, in theory, when both partners are mutually beneficial to each other."

"I'm already married," he deadpanned.

Holmes squinted at him and took another slow drag. "Don't make me regret picking you for this. I can still go to Rochester but I'd prefer to avoid his onion and cabbage smell if at all possible."

"What exactly are you proposing here?"

"You're a detective, I'm a consulting detective. You receive official cases, I can work outside the law to get results. I need cases, you need help closing cases." Greg eyed Holmes' hand as it waved back and forth between them and wondered if the kid was high again. He didn't look it.

"I'm clean," Holmes intuited.

"There's no such thing as a consulting detective."

He grinned. "There is now."

"Why not just call yourself a private eye?"

Holmes dropped and then smashed his cigarette under his shiny Italian heel. "Donny Miller is holed up at his girlfriend’s cousin Jamie's estate flat in Peckham. You'll find him there or at the pub around the corner."

"How d’you know that?" Greg asked, a fissure of worry skating down his spine.

"I have connections."

At that, Greg pulled him from the front of NSY to the side alley. He got his hand smacked for his troubles but he wasn't deterred. "I can't be seen with someone who is associated with the Miller gang unless you make an official statement, let alone let you in on my other cases."

Holmes snorted. "I'm not _associated_. I have people, trusted people, who can get information that others wouldn't know to hide. I utilize those connections, as you will learn to appreciate. Now,” he straightened his jacket, “do we have a deal?" 

" _If_ , and only if, you're right about Donny, I'll _think_ about letting you look at a few cold cases."

"Give me the Boston Jewel Thief," Holmes demanded.

"I... You do understand how jurisdiction works, right? I don't work for the Boston PD."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," he said, his voice thick with patronizing patience.

Greg chuckled in amazement and looked the kid over again in contemplation. "I'm not sure I want to work with you. You're kind of a prat."

"You'd do well to utilize my skills, Sergeant Lestrade," he easily drawled, as if it were a done deal, Greg just hadn't realized it yet.

Coming from anyone else, it would sound like a threat. From him it was just a statement.

 _Hell, in for a penny..._ "You got a first name?"

"Sherlock."

He raised his eyebrows. "All right, not sure I'll remember that, but...Greg," he held his hand out again.

Sherlock took it with a smile. "I think I can remember that."

 

_January 2005_

 

As soon as the bag was removed from his head, Greg took in his surroundings and then growled at the bastard who had tugged it free. Dull, lifeless eyes, short cropped blond hair, meaty fists. His first instinct said military but that didn't mean anything; lots of ex-soldiers went rogue. His eyes trailed the room next, taking in more detail: grey concrete, glass one way mirror, metal table and chairs; not dissimilar to his own interrogation room. He'd been mentally calculating who would want him kidnapped since they'd picked him up just outside his local diner, but so far he'd come up blank. Not even the Miller's would be smart, or stupid, enough to pull this off. And besides, this had more of an 'unofficial government sanction' feel than a random kidnapping.

"You're going to regret this," he bit out.

"Yeah, I've heard it before,” the thug lazily drawled. “Stay here, the boss would like a word." He chuckled at the fact that Greg was tied down to the chair he sat in- he clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

As soon as the door closed he tugged on the zip strips, for the thousandth time since he'd been kidnapped, to no avail. He was still twisting, breaking the skin at this point, when another man walked into the room. He gifted Greg with a smile as he sat at the chair opposite. His grace and clothes said 'Posh Boarding School Brat' but his smile said 'I'm the Boss.' He took in every detail he could: dark auburn hair with a slight receding hairline, long nose, blue eyes, like ice chips they were, and immediately relaxed. He'd seen that hawk-like focus before.

"This is about Sherlock," he stated.

The man froze, looking slightly taken aback, before he collected himself and resumed the pleasant 'Tea Time' mien. "You're smarter than he gives you credit for."

"If it was supposed to be a secret, you wouldn't have come in wearing the same tailored suits and the Italian shoes."

"We look nothing alike,” the man pointed out. “Our clothes are inconsequential."

"True," he conceded, "but you read me like a book just now and I've gotten used to that kind of perusal in the last few weeks.” After a beat he huffed in annoyance. “If you're not going to stuff splinters under my finger nails, can you untie me?"

"I still might," he mused happily, eyes gleaming.

Greg, in a habit he’d already picked up from Sherlock, rolled his eyes. "Sherlock's a good kid and as I suspect you're the Guardian Angel looking out for him, you can't be all bad yourself. Untie me. Please."

"Don't make assumptions, Sergeant." Despite his threat he rose to remove the zip strips from Greg's wrists. He produced a knife from seemingly nowhere and cut the plastic strips with a deftness that belied experience. Greg took notice and filed it away. He wasn't sure what this man's job description was but it was nothing good. "And he's hardly a ‘kid’," the man continued. "He turned twenty nine last week."

"Really?" He asked as he rubbed at his newly freed wrists. "He doesn't look a day over twenty three at the most."

The man gave a wan smile and walked back to the other side of the table. Greg glanced down at his ankles, still tied to the chair.

"Uh," he mumbled and jiggled his legs in irritation.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid." Another chilling smile. He lowered himself gracefully back into his seat. "Now, I'd like to have a chat about my precocious little brother. You've no doubt been apprised of his... gifts?"

 _Brother, huh._ Sherlock had never said he had one. But with a brother like this, who could blame him? "Obviously. He can't open his mouth without showing off. Do you share those talents...?" He let the question trail off. They’d not yet been introduced.

"Mycroft,” he deigned to reply, holding Greg’s eye.

"Mycroft," he tasted the word. "Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Was your mother a comedienne?"

Even though Holmes’ smile had been fake, Greg felt the first real fission of fear skate down his spine when it disappeared. "Gregory Alan Lestrade, born in Dagenham to Patricia Marie Lestrade Nee Bueller and William James Lestrade, siblings Marshall Lestrade, Karen Lestrade-Phelps and one stillborn brother posthumously named William Jr. I could go further back but I'm sure you're aware of the family names and your history of cowardice, despite not having stepped foot on French soil in two hundred years." The smile came back.

It was good Mycroft hadn't untied his legs. The ex-military bloke would have put a bullet in his brain after Greg leapt across the table and choked the life from the man seated adjacent.

Greg felt his own malicious smile appear. "That's impressive. Except all that is public record. You didn't read that from my shoe laces or from the food stuck in my teeth."

Mycroft leaned in toward him in an almost predatory way. Greg held his spine as stiff as possible.

"You're greying prematurely, not from the job, which is the lie you tell yourself, but from the fact that despite promises to the contrary, your wife is a chronic adulterer. You're too much of a coward to leave her even though the stress is clearly affecting you." He gave a sneer. "You dabbled in bisexuality at University but it didn't stick. Though that probably had more to do with your partners’ ineptitude than a lack of interest."

Greg blinked rapidly as his heart rate doubled. He hadn't even thought of that in years, had barely looked twice at a bloke in forever, so how was Holmes getting that from him now?

He continued. "You'd love to get your hands around my neck but you're smart enough to know you'd never survive, even if you weren't tied to that chair. You actually love being a Detective, despite the hourly complaints. It's why Sherlock chose you. He knew you'd do anything to solve a case and see justice done. You're right to utilize him."

Greg blinked for six seconds before responding. "You know, for someone who's best interest it is that I continue to utilize him, you're doing an excellent job of making me want to do the exact opposite."

"You're smarter than that, Sergeant. Sherlock would have to show up at a crime scene high again for you to turn him away. As long as you keep him sufficiently occupied, he won't."

"I'm not a temp agency for recovering addicts, Holmes," he spit. "If there’s a case he can assist on, fine, but I can't just let him roam free where ever he wants. I'm risking my job enough as it is."

"Your job is secured as long as Sherlock works with you, of that you can be sure. You might even get a promotion out of it."

Instead of pacifying him, Greg became enraged. "Now you listen here-"

Holmes held up a hand. "On your own merit then. Fine. But I won't allow them to fire or demote you. I need you in position to supply him with what you can. It is imperative."

"Fine," he snapped. The sooner he acquiesced, the sooner he could go home. 

Holmes set his hand back down on the table with a smack. A flash of gold had caught Greg’s eye when he'd held his hand up; Mycroft wore a plain gold band on the ring finger of his right hand. He used his own deductive powers and assumed he'd been married himself once before. Mycroft wasn't the type to wear jewelry for aesthetic purposes, though it did seem out of character. Sentimental even.

"You know, you're one to give me shit for my marriage." He nodded at the ring.

Holmes didn't look down. "Irrelevant," he stated coldly.

"I can't even imagine what sort of woman you could talk into marrying you. Was she mad? Maybe she was just young, didn’t know any better,” he practically growled, his tone becoming more scathing as he gathered steam. He intended to cut this man, see if he could bleed. “If she had half a brain at all she probably ran off within the first week. You were probably too busy deducing the PH balance in her-"

"She was a brilliant politician from a well-respected family," he interrupted with mechanical precision, unlike what a normal bloke would do if you insulted his wife. "We were married for ten years."

"Wow. Coming from you that must be the highest declaration of love. No wonder she left."

"She died six years ago."

_Oh._

He opened his mouth to back-pedal but it was too late. Holmes stood and walked out. 

 

_February 2010_

 

After numerous texts, late night kidnappings, and shady notes left in random places at home or at the office, Greg and Mycroft Holmes didn't have one civil conversation until John Watson appeared in everyone's lives.

_Buzz._

He fished his mobile from his pocket despite the fact that he knew who the text was from. It wasn't a hard deduction, the sleek black limousine had followed behind him since leaving NSY three blocks prior.

 _Get in, Sergeant_.

_No. GL_

"And it's Detective Inspector now!" He yelled behind him. The black car continued to creep alongside the pavement. Damn the garage for keeping his car overnight. He'd see them all framed for embezzlement for this. Though in retrospect the fact they’d kept it probably had Holmes' fingerprints all over it. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d engineered Greg’s helplessness to his own advantage.

_Get in, Inspector._

_I'm off to dinner. Piss off. GL_

The window came down and Holmes' posh head leaned out. "Please."

Greg stopped at that strange bit of etiquette. The car stopped too.

"I'm hungry. I haven't eaten in twelve hours." He wasn't pouting. He wasn't.

"You had a doughnut at four o'clock."

Greg grit his teeth and mentally added tax evasion to the list of charges to his garage. "I haven't eaten anything _other than a doughnut_ in twelve hours. I'd like to have a burger at the diner across from my flat and then go to bed, if it's all right with you."

"The wife not cooking?"

He balled his fists. _Murder. Full stop,_ he thought. _A body in the boot of a car._ "She's staying with her sister, not that it's any of your business."

Holmes' smile was serene. ' _We both know she's not at her sisters,'_ it said. On second thought, why involve the garage at all? Greg pictured the look of surprise on Holmes’ face should he reach through the window and plant a facer on the bastard. It felt right in the moment but then he had to remind himself he wouldn’t be charged with assault; Holmes would just leave him chained to a concrete wall in a basement somewhere. And probably erase his entire existence while he was at it.

"Get in,” Holmes called out, breaking Greg’s reverie. “I'll take you to dinner."

Greg gaped at that. "What?"

"I will take you to dinner," he repeated slowly.

"We don't do dinner, Holmes. We do kidnappings, things you call ‘favours’ that are really threats, a game called 'How much more before Greg gets fired?' but not dinner."

Holmes gave a put upon sigh and opened the door wide. Greg walked over as if in a trance and sat warily, vigilant of traps.

"This better be legit. I expect the greasiest burger England can supply."

"I could fly us to Texas if you'd prefer."

Greg side eyed him. "I should take you up on the offer, just to prove a point."

"And what point would that be?"

"That you rarely follow through with your promises."

Holmes stared at him until Greg was forced to look away. The Boss leaned forward and rapped on the glass divider until it lowered a fraction.

"Milly's," he demanded cryptically. The divider slid closed and he smiled.

"I always wondered why you don't have an intercom system in here," Greg admitted as he looked around the spacious interior. There was a mini bar, space for his briefcase, and a small monitor Greg assumed was for video conferencing or something, but no intercom. 

"I don't trust machines. Machines can be hacked."

"You would know," he mumbled. "So what's Milly's?"

"I can't promise Texas, or even that it will be the greasiest, but I can promise you the best burger in England," he smugly announced.

He scoffed at the boast. "Really? And I'm supposed to trust your opinion? It's probably got kale or tofu on it."

An elegant eyebrow raised. "Is that what you think I eat, Inspector?”

Greg swallowed, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know."

"You are well aware of the fact that Sherlock thinks I weigh twenty stone. Why do you suppose that is?" He asked with a straight face.

Greg pinched his lips together and shook his head. Was Holmes showing signs of a sense of humor?

"I have a healthy appetite," he finished.

"I believe you," Greg replied, fully unable to keep the smirk off his face. Low and behold, Holmes was sporting one of his own. Greg thought he didn't mind it since he was mocking himself. He looked away, though there wasn't much to see out the darkly tinted window. He tugged on his trench coat and stared down at his mud-caked shoes.

"Your attire is perfectly acceptable. Milly's isn't nearly as high end as you're imagining."

"Shut up,” he snapped, irritated that he’d been so obvious. “And stop reading my mind."

"So sorry." He looked away, again with that little smirk. Greg didn't know what to think. He felt like he'd missed a step somewhere.

The driver stopped outside a small restaurant on a quiet street in Chelsea. Greg let himself out and looked around. The restaurant, proclaiming Milly’s Diner on the overhead sign, looked run-down, dark, cramped and perfectly lovely. He glanced back at Holmes in surprise.

"After you," he said and motioned Greg to proceed him.

It _was_ lovely. Cheap plastic ivy hung from the ceiling, the tables sported paper menus, the bartender had just coughed all over the glass he was wiping out, there were ten to twelve other patrons seated who looked very happy. All good signs. Greg picked a table and waited patiently for the waitress, who ignored them both. Eventually the bartender looked up and shouted, "Mil! Mycroft!"

Greg started when a tiny little speck of a woman, seventy if she was a day, squealed loudly, rushed from the back and sped right at them. Holmes stood, towering over her, and opened his arms.

"Mycroft! Too long, dear, too long! Where've you been?" She shouted in an East End accent so thick even Greg had to strain to decipher it.

"You know how it gets. Always another paper to file," he sighed.

Greg snorted so loud they both turned. "Mycroft! Who's this?" Milly asked with a smile.

"Where are my manners? Milly, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Inspector, Amelia Valentine, Head Chef."

Milly looked wide eyed between the two men, smile frozen solid.

"He's here for one of your famous burgers, that's all. On my word." Mycroft's smile would have caused mothers to hand over their babies.

Greg eyed him before responding. "Yes. And some chips, if you don't mind."

"Oh, all right," her smile melted into something more natural, "any friend of Mycroft's and all that. Any preference?"

"Whatever you make will be fine."

"All right. Coming right up. The usual?" She asked Holmes.

“Yes, please.” He nodded. "With a bottle of Riesling, I think."

Greg pulled a disgusted scowl. "Riesling? With a burger?" He looked at Milly. "Make that a Sauvignon, if you would."

She laughed at them, giving them a familiar Mrs. Hudson-esque ‘Oh you two’ eye roll and then shuffled away. Holmes gave him his best frown but Greg wouldn't be deterred. Any idiot could tell you, you didn’t pair white wine with red meat. What was he trying to pull?

He snapped a napkin down into his lap and casually asked, "So what illegal activity am I meant to ignore this evening?"

Holmes picked up the paper menu and casually fanned himself, the picture of ease. "Nothing for you to trouble yourself over."

"Holmes," he drawled threateningly.

He received a very Sherlockian put-upon sigh. He'd have to rename it Holmesian. The bartender came around the bar with a tray and Greg glared at Holmes during the entirety of the man setting their bottle of wine down, the glasses, and the waters.

"Thank you, Benjamin."

The man nodded with a grunt. Greg marveled at the lack of decorum and Holmes utter lack of care. He'd never seen the like and now that he thought on it, he slowly came to the realization that this scene was looking less like a meeting and an awful lot like a date. He glanced around with an uncomfortable twitch of his torso.

"All right, if you won't tell me what this place is a front for, at least tell me why you dragged me here." He took a sip of the wine and hummed in appreciation. The bloom of it was perfect, and his stomach growled as he took in the scent of the wine coupled with the smell of grease flares from the kitchen.

"I'd like your opinion," Holmes began.

 _Huh. That's new._ Greg cocked his head. "On what?

He rolled the wine glass stem between his fingers casually. "Dr. John Watson."

"Ah," Greg said and smiled in understanding. "That's a wonder, isn't it?"

"Quite." He smiled back and it almost looked genuine.

"I take it you've already had him bagged and given him the lecture."

"I didn't go to those exact extremes but essentially, yes."

"So that was just for my benefit? Lovely."

Holmes hid another smile behind his wine glass. "Different men, different tactics. John Watson is a military man. A full terror assault would have driven his stubbornness into even deeper territory. No, I gave him enough of a push toward Sherlock instead of away, set off his instincts to protect. I'd say it's worked out well so far, wouldn't you?"

"And here I thought you were a devious, manipulative psychopath." Greg chuckled. "No. Regular matchmaker you are."

Holmes’ face softened just enough to make Greg wonder if that had been his honest intent.

"He shot Jeff Hope," Greg informed him, _sotta voche_ , "you know that, right?"

"Of course. I'm more curious as to why you didn't do your official duty, Inspector."

Greg thought back to that look, the one Sherlock had when he'd spotted Dr. Watson across the car park. He'd never seen the like from Sherlock Holmes. "I suppose for the same reason you have for pushing them together. He's good for Sherlock. Hell, if I'd known a man like him existed, I'd have put an ad in the paper years ago. ‘Seeking:  lonely Army Doctor for lonely Consulting Detective. Must be loyal, willing to overlook random drug busts, and chase criminals together against the advice of London Metro.’ Something like that."

Mycroft laughed. Greg couldn’t recall a single time he’d made the man laugh, truly laugh, in the five years they’d been acquainted. It made him suddenly human in a way he hadn’t been before and Greg felt a small bit of tension, he hadn’t been aware of carrying, lift from his shoulders.

"I've come close to doing that very thing," Mycroft admitted. "I've rarely bothered with human connection myself, but I had feared Sherlock was not as disconnected as I am. I believe John Watson could be very good for my little brother. Maybe not so much for you though," he mused with a smirk.

"How d’you mean?"

"Well, I do expect, with his helper at his side, Sherlock is going to get into twice as much trouble as before. Do feel free to call when he ends up in your custody, Inspector."

Greg sighed, not having thought that part through yet, clearly. Before he could respond, Milly came bustling out with the tray of food. He stood to help her but she waved him off.

"You sit, dear, and enjoy." She smiled easily.

"This looks amazing," Greg commented as she set his plate down, and he meant it. The thing was piled high with toppings, but the patty dominated the sandwich in a way that had his mouth watering. He carefully lifted it to his mouth and bit into it. "Oh my god," he mumbled, mouth full to bursting.

Milly grinned ear to ear, an infectious thing he would have responded to if his mouth hadn’t been so full. "Let me know if you boys need anything."

He couldn't answer; his soul had transcended his body and was floating somewhere above the restaurant. He was vaguely aware Mycroft had spoken but he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes, let alone respond. It wasn't the greasiest, but it was hands down the best burger he'd had in his life. Possibly the best anything he'd had in his life. Just spicy enough, juicy enough, toppings crispy enough. It was over too soon; by the time he did manage to float back down to Earth the sandwich was gone.

"Another," he whispered the demand out of reverence.

Mycroft dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, his own sandwich long gone, and chuckled. "We've all said that. Trust me, I'd have to cart you out of here on a stretcher if you attempted another. Finish your chips," he commanded with a head nod at his plate.

"I've figured it out," Greg mused aloud as he dipped his chip in the tiny bowl of ketchup, too sated to argue over the command.

"Figured what, Inspector?" He asked, amused.

"She sold her soul to the devil to make the perfect burger, now she's stuck guarding a portal to Hell that's in the basement. That's why you know about this place. It's how you get to and from work." He waved a chip back and forth.

"Oh no. Cat's out of the bag now," he admitted, deadpan.

Greg chuckled, tickled that he’d played along. "Careful, Holmes, I'll start to think you're human."

"That's just the burger talking. I could have one of my men tranquilize you and send you home dressed as a..oh, a cowboy or something. You'd feel much better."

"Too right," he agreed as he finished off his wine. "I don't know what to do with this," he waved at Mycroft with his glass, "whatever it is. It's disturbing."

The man across from him smiled, almost sad, if that were possible, and then leant over to refill Greg's glass. "I find myself happy for my brother, Inspector, and I wished to share that with someone who would appreciate the sentiment. Is that so hard to imagine?"

 _Yes!_ Greg wanted to shout but he couldn't. He was shocked into silence. Mycroft took a long sip from his glass and turned to stare out the front window.

"Tell me something about Sherlock," Greg blurted out. "From when you were kids, I mean."

He looked back slowly. Not surprised, just curious. "What would you like to know?"

"I... I don't know. What was he like?"

He looked to the ceiling before answering. "Wide eyed and daring. Not much has changed there, I'm afraid. Sadly, I never had much time for him in those days. Intellectually I was light years beyond most adults I knew by the time of his birth, let alone this curious, tottering, curly-headed brat who stuck his nose into whatever project I had going at the moment. He seemed a dreadful burden." Greg laughed and Mycroft looked up with a shared smile. "What probably should have bonded us together only served to annoy me most of the time. By the time he was old enough to catch up with me, I was away at school." He smiled wanly.

 _School my arse_ , Greg thought. Military training, MI6 underground facility maybe, but not school. "It must be so hard to cart around that massive head... sorry, I meant brain,” he corrected with a smirk.

Mycroft pursed his lips but his cheek twitched. "Yes, well, you joke but it's true. We've a responsibility to use our powers for good, or so I've been told."

"Did Uncle Ben tell you that?" He asked dryly.

Mycroft's eyebrows came together and Greg had to hide his grin behind his wineglass. "So, you've looked into Dr. Watson's past I'm sure. He's almost a perfect specimen for Sherlock to utilize for his work, but for them to actually get along...” He shook his head in disbelief. “That's got to be a one in a million chance there. You sure you didn't have a hand in that?"

"As much as I'd like to take credit, I cannot. Almost makes you want to believe in fate, doesn't it?"

"Almost." He took another drink and finished off the last of his chips. Between the drink and the full stomach he was feeling bold. "Donovan seems to think they're shagging already. What do you think? In the cards?"

Mycroft twisted his wineglass again and paused before answering. "In my opinion, Dr. Watson would fall into it very easily, if only Sherlock were capable. Alas, he is not."

"Not capable?" Greg frowned, suddenly worried.

"Not in the way you imagine,” he comforted. “Physically he's fine. No, his brain would never shut off long enough to allow for romantic entanglements."

Suddenly, Greg was remembering a very awkward conversation that had taken place years before. Mycroft's wife. Perhaps he hadn't been so very far off about their marriage. He and Sherlock were both intelligent blokes after all; if Sherlock wasn't capable, it stood to reason Mycroft wasn't either. And now, looking down at his wineglass, with Mycroft's sitting not far off in his periphery, he remembered another bit of embarrassing conversation - his deduction on Greg's University 'dabbles' as he’d put it. _Why? Why think of that now?_ He chastised himself.

"I'll see you home," Mycroft suddenly said.

Greg looked up in guilt and prayed everything he'd just been thinking hadn't been written all over his face, but it probably had.

"All right," he muttered lamely. Mycroft stood and Greg followed suit, awkwardly fidgeting with his chair in an attempt to avoid Mycroft’s eyes. Milly bustled over as they donned their coats.

“How was everything?” She asked with a smile. It was clear she knew the answer already.

“Exemplary, as always, my dear,” Mycroft complimented sweetly. He tugged his jacket straight and bent to kiss both her cheeks. Greg looked away at this strange bit of human normalcy from the formerly enigmatic Holmes.  

“And you, Inspector? Can I expect another return customer?”

He chuckled. “I’d like to see anyone stop me.”

They all shared a grin and Greg felt the surreal quality of the moment a hundred fold. He broke away with an uncomfortable shake of his head.

“Inspector,” Mycroft addressed, “if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Milly.”

“Oh, course, yeah.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders. _Not an inclining of the illegal nature of your front,_ his posture screamed to the cook. “Thanks again, Milly, for the wonderful meal.”

“My pleasure, Inspector.” She winked at him and he cracked another smile.

 He walked outside, leaving them to their discussion, and, as his heart rate slowed down, wished for the thousandth time that week that he hadn't quit smoking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it a date? We may never know. The enigmatic Holmes indeed.


	2. Breaking and Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft shows up at Greg's flat for an impromptu sleepover. Things heat up the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains handskies and blowskies. I actually managed to fit a lot of sexual tension into this chapter considering the fact that Greg wasn't even hardly aware he wanted the 'D' in the last one. Suffice it to say Mycroft shows him the way. Enjoy.

February 2011

 

Everything went back to normal after that anomaly of a dinner. Mycroft kept an almost pointed lack of contact, to the extent that Greg often wondered if he'd imagined the quasi-date. He found himself seated at Milly's almost weekly after, so he knew he hadn't imagined that bit. Once, in a fit of depression after his wife finally asked for a divorce, he asked Milly if Mycroft ever came in, as they'd never once crossed paths there in a year. She answered that he hadn’t as much as he used to, to her disappointment. Greg tried not to see anything in that, but he couldn't help blaming himself for some reason.

He was sat behind his desk, staring blankly at his computer, when Donovan flew into his office to announce that the Chief wanted to see him.

"He say what for?" He asked as he grabbed his jacket.

"No, just to send you up. What did you do?" She smirked.

"Stop gunning for my job, Sergeant. You think you want it but you really don't."

"Not if it comes with this office, I don't. You've gotten everything sticky and grease covered, you great pig."

He nudged into her hard as he passed her in the doorway. She laughed and closed the door behind them. Greg found himself nervously sweating as he rode the lift to the fifth floor. If this was about Sherlock, he'd rather leap from the window than have to explain. He was flying so far under the radar with the consulting detective, as far as the higher ups were concerned, he was practically crawling on his stomach. 

He knocked on the Superintendent's doorframe. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ah, Lestrade, come in. Have a seat. Oh, don't look like that, you're not in trouble." He smirked. Greg wasn't sure what look he had on his face but apparently he wasn't hiding his tribulation. "I just wanted to check in with you and your family situation, the divorce and that."

"Oh," he huffed. Weird, but better than the assumed topic. "It was finalized last week. She's staying with her parents in Kent."

"I see. Good riddence, eh?" He laughed.

Greg forced a chuckle. "Yeah." Inside his guts twisted. Everyone seemed to be under the assumption that he’d wanted the divorce, but it was her idea, not his. _Mycroft was right about you_ , his subconscious hissed. He shook his head in annoyance.

"So, you throwing a party?"

"A party, sir?"

"You know, are you going to celebrate your newfound freedom?" He grinned.

"Oh, I hadn't really thought about it," he admitted, uncomfortable with this line of inquiry.

"None of the blokes tried to take you out yet? Shame. Well, let's rectify that, yeah? What do you say we have a few drinks down at The Pear Tree. Say around nine?"

Greg thought that sounded like the worst idea he'd heard in years, but one didn't say no to the Chief Superintendent. "I... Yeah, that sounds great." Plastered fake smile in place. The image of just he and the Chief having drinks together made his skin crawl. "Should I invite the team?" He asked, desperate for a buffer.

"Yeah! The more the merrier. Go on, get out of here, you lucky bachelor." He waved him on.

Greg gave a nod and then marched out of the office. He waited until he was out of sight before his fist flew out and he punched the wall in frustration. His hand didn’t appreciate the throb but it served its purpose of venting.

He tried to keep the invites to a minimum but the news spread like wildfire around the office. Everyone came up and gave him a slap on the back, promises of drinks doubled and tripled and Greg wondered if taking them up on the offer would land him in hospital. He'd rather be there than celebrating the worst thing to happen to him in ten years.

The turnout was even bigger than just his team, his department even. People showed up who didn't even know what they were celebrating, just wanting to drink and get pissed on a Friday night. Greg smiled when people congratulated him, laughed when they called his ex a bitch and just barely hid his contempt when questioned over how many blokes he thought she'd gotten off with behind his back. These people were terrible at reading his barely concealed rage. It was worrying considering the careers they held.

Around eleven o'clock Sally leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Get out of here. I'll cover for you."

"Bless you," he said sincerely as he grabbed his coat.

"Remember the little people," she teased with a lift of her glass.

There was a reason Sally had risen to Sergeant faster than even he had himself; she was brilliant at reading people. There in lay the issue between Sherlock and herself. She never could get a clear read on him, and it pissed her off. Her instincts told her to trust him but she resented his ability and his utter lack of control and that made her act out towards Sherlock in a way she never did with anyone else. He wished it wasn’t a constant battle between them because he loved them both but dealing with them in the same space was like herding vitriol spewing cats. 

He was so emotionally exhausted by the time he got home, he didn't even turn on any of the lights in the flat, just stripped and fell into bed with a huff. His arm, out of habit, reached out and lay across the empty side of the bed, until the cold of the sheet reminded him that there was nobody there. _Sleeping alone is one the worst parts_ , he thought before falling asleep.

                                                   ~*~

His eyes snapped open at 2:28am; the bedside alarm clock announced the time clearly with a red, blinking glow over the room. He sat up slowly and looked around, trying to discern what had woken him. He hadn't heard anything but he generally didn't wake up out of a dead sleep for no reason either. _Lord, when I wished I wasn't alone in the flat anymore, that didn't mean I wanted a break in,_ he mused as he slid the bedside table drawer open and grabbed his sidearm.

The bedroom door was still open and the illumination from the hallway windows cast a yellow glow from the street, allowing him just enough light to see as he stood from the bed. As quietly as he could he pulled his pistol from the bed side table drawer. He knew it was loaded with a bullet in the chamber; he kept it so for just this reason, so there'd be no need to cock it.

It was like walking a mine field, stepping over pants and shirts and trousers on the floor, but since Dawn had left he hadn't bothered cleaning after himself. Just enough to avoid bugs, that was about it. His trip down the hall was slow but he crept as carefully as he dared; he’d be damned if he died in his pants because he’d tripped on something and alerted an intruder. He made it as far as the sitting room before pausing again to listen. Still nothing.

He was close to giving into the fact that he probably looked ridiculous, when a hand reached out from the kitchen, wrapped around his wrist, tugged the weapon from his grip and tossed it. After even just two beers his reaction time wasn't what it should have been and when he tried to pull away he quickly found himself thrown to the ground, arm wrenched behind his back as he fell to his stomach. He grunted and tried to lift but there was a knee planted into the small of his back and his arm was pulled higher.

"Christ," he whinged. "This is not my night."

"Give up, Inspector?"

" _Mycroft?!_ " He shouted, knowing that voice better than he had any right to.

"That's Holmes to you," he drawled easily, as if he wasn't practically pulling Greg's arm out of the socket.

"Oh my god. What are you doing? And get the hell off my back. You're going to wrinkle your suit."

The pressure lifted and he took a deep breath. Suddenly the kitchen light illuminated the flat and Greg looked up as he rolled to stand.

Mycroft wasn't wearing a suit. Actually, he looked a bit like Sherlock. _This must be Mycroft in casual wear_ , he mused. Mycroft was head to toe in black- cashmere jumper, trousers, pea coat, shoes. Greg tried not to gape in surprise and failed.

"I need a place to stay, hopefully just for tonight. I don't seem to be able to trust any of my employees at the moment, so I thought this best. Apologies if I hurt you. Just trying to avoid getting shot." He gave a small smile.

"You could have called," he informed the man as he tested his rotator cuff.

"No, I couldn't have."

"You've got a mole," he stated. Mycroft hesitated. "Despite what Sherlock would have you believe, I'm not actually an idiot. Just... Fuck, I don't know, make yourself comfortable I guess. Let me get dressed."

"Don't bother. I'm fine."

Greg turned and blinked for several seconds.

"I meant you don't have to stay awake on my account. You were sleeping, you can just go back to bed. I'll be fine."

Oh, right. That did make more sense. "It's fine. You got my adrenaline up with that stunt, I couldn't go back to sleep now if I wanted to." Also, he felt way too vulnerable with Mycroft in his flat while he was in nothing but his boxers. "I'll be right back."

He scooped his pistol from the sitting room floor on his way back to the bedroom. He made sure the safety was thumbed back into position before he placed it back into the drawer and then turned to pull his sleep wear from his basket of clean clothes on the floor. It seemed even with his cotton bottoms and his old football shirt on he still felt naked, vulnerable so he dug frantically in his closet for his house coat. He hadn't ever bothered with it before but it was too late for jeans and standing around in just his pajamas was right out. He found the thing in the box Dawn had wrapped it in, a Christmas gift from three years ago. _Christ, no wonder she left. You were a shit husband._

Once the tie on the blue house coat was pulled tight he felt a bit better about the situation.

He stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway. No. He really didn't feel better about the situation at all. What the hell was going on? Mycroft had broken into his flat in the middle of the night because he felt safe here. He'd come _here_ of all places, despite the fact that they weren’t friends, hadn’t even spoken in months. Why did that knowledge have him feeling like he was floating on the ceiling instead of grounded in the moment, where he should be? He shook his head and decided to just go with it.

By the time he made it back to the kitchen, Mycroft had taken his coat off, draped it on the back of the kitchen chair, and was bent over the counter reading yesterday’s paper. As if he didn't know what was in it already. Hell, half the stories probably had his prints all over them. Part of Greg's mind was extremely aware of the fact that he had just checked out Mycroft Holmes as he stood there, but the part of his brain that kept him sane immediately took this information and incinerated it.

"Don't think I've ever seen you without your umbrella before," he noted as he stood in the doorway.

Mycroft stood up straight and turned casually. "Which is exactly why I'm not carrying it."

"Smart." He nodded, unable to keep his eyes from wandering the kitchen. _Old pizza box, stack of plates I never put into the cupboard from the dishwasher, empty beer bottle. Christ._ "Can I get you a beer or something?" He asked lamely.

"Ah, that would be acceptable."

"You sure? I'm not exactly sure if it's up to your standards."

"I'm sure it's fine, Inspector."

He walked to the fridge and pulled two from the six pack he'd bought the day before. "You know," he started to say as he popped the top and handed one over, "you can call me Greg."

"Ah," he mumbled as he took the bottle.

"Or just Lestrade, if that's more your style. Your brother does. Though I get the feeling sometimes it's because he doesn't remember my first name." He grinned and took a swig of the beer. 

"That is extremely possible," Mycroft admitted and took a swig of his own. Which he then immediately snorted and choked on.

"Oh my god," Greg laughed despite himself. "I'm sorry. I said you probably wouldn't like it."

"No, it's fine," he lied. Greg handed him a tea towel to dab at his chin with. "I just didn't expect," he looked down at the label, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher, "peach?"

Greg felt his cheeks heat. "I like it. It was something the missus rubbed off on me when we first got together. She likes the flavored stuff." He shrugged.

Mycroft nodded in understanding and then quietly muttered, "My condolences on your divorce."

Greg felt his heart kick up unexpectedly at that. "You know, normally I'm pissed off when you do that, read me like that, but you're the first person to notice that I'm not actually thrilled at being divorced. Thank you."

Mycroft nodded, ducking his head a bit shyly, and took another drink. "I thought you'd be angry at my prying."

"I probably should be."

"I only did because the likelihood of my being welcomed doubled if she wasn't here to object."

Greg thought about how welcome Mycroft actually was and found that it was definitely a lot more than it would have been a year ago. Why was that? It couldn't be because of that fucking hamburger, could it?

"I won't toss you out. I'm fairly sure England needs your, um, _filing_ expertise, so..." He held up his beer.

"Thank you."

It got quiet. The tick of the clock over the doorway seemed to get louder and louder.

"I'm not sure how to entertain you," Greg admitted.

"There's really no need."

He scoffed. "What kind of knob do you take me for? You're a guest... sort of." He stood and walked to the sitting room. The DVD collection had dwindled since Dawn had left but all the best ones were his anyway. "Would watching Bond hit too close to home?" He teased.

Mycroft smirked from the doorway. "I'm quite fine, I assure you. You don't have to go to the trouble."

"You think Sean Connery is a hardship?" Whoops. That came out sounding more confessional than he'd intended. He covered the gaffe quickly, "How about Monty Python? Is the Holy Grail a hardship?"

Mycroft seemed to hesitate. "I suppose that would be acceptable."

"Don't hurt yourself jumping up and down," he mumbled as he crouched to pull it from the bottom shelf. The DVD player probably needed to be upgraded- they'd had it for years- but it still worked. He pushed the tray in and went to grab another beer from the fridge. When he came back from the kitchen, Mycroft was sitting on the sofa. Greg slowed, uneasy and worried about why he was so suddenly sure this was crossing some sort of a line he hadn't known existed. Why did every normal interaction with this man suddenly feel a thousand times more intimate than it should?

"I'll admit," Mycroft said as Greg sat, "it's been years since I've seen this."

"But you have seen it?"

"Oh, yes. My father watched it several times when I was young. The television show was frequently on as I grew."

"You know, if you don't laugh at least once, I'm probably going to have to kick you out. That would be too much for me to handle."

The man actually looked worried and Greg couldn't help but laugh.

"You're teasing," Mycroft deduced, eyeing him closely.

"Yes, Holmes, I'm taking the piss. Though it would be a travesty of the first order."

"I do have a sense of humor." Greg raised an eyebrow. "It's wrapped in chains and buried under a meter of concrete but it's there."

"Cheers," Greg said with a chuckle and they clinked glasses. The movie started and they fell into a companionable silence. Every once in a while one of them would quote a line. When they quoted one at the same time it was hard not to look over and laugh. _This is the weirdest fucking thing,_ he thought to himself. _I'm actually having a good time._

When the killer rabbit scene came on Mycroft chuckled. "Sherlock hated this part."

"Really? I'd have thought he'd love the blood thirsty little rodent."

"He did. That was the problem. He didn't like when they blew it up. He would cry and run from the room."

"Oh my god, that's priceless."

Mycroft smiled. "Use the information as you will."

Greg laughed. He certainly would. "I'm going for another beer. You want another?"

"Ah, yes, please."

"You don't have to lie. I've got a pretty good bottle of scotch if that's more your thing?"

He hesitated. "I do love a good scotch but I think this is fine." He held up his empty bottle.

"All right." He rose and walked to the fridge. He only had the two bottles left but that was probably for the best. He'd already had two at the pub, plus two here. He didn't need to get drunk in Mycroft's company. He had a niggling suspicion that it would be a bad idea. When he returned to the sitting room Mycroft was no longer looking at the telly. Actually, he was pulling a 'Sherlock', eyes open but unseeing, which Greg had never witnessed on the elder Holmes before. He sat down next to the man, set the beer down in front of him, and just stared as Mycroft didn't do more than blink for ten minutes. It was eerie, but also, sort of calming in a way. He wondered if John ever did this, just sat and watched Sherlock as he did absolutely nothing.

"Apologies, Inspector," Mycroft suddenly said.

Greg started as his trace was broken. He tried not to blush; he was clearly embarrassed by being caught out watching the motion of Mycroft's chest as he breathed in and out. "Oh, it's fine, I... I was just making sure you were still alive. I was sure rigor had set in," he tried to tease. 

Mycroft gave a halfhearted smile.

"So, where were you just now? Or is that top secret?"

He gave the briefest hesitation. "Just planning ahead. It's complicated."

"I'm sure. Can I ask, how likely is it that someone is going to show up here with a garrote wire or sit on the neighbor’s roof with a sniper rifle and attempt to kill us both?” Greg asked, only half joking. “On a scale of one to ten?"

"Three point seven five five nine percent," he immediately answered.

"Oh," Greg huffed, "that's not bad." He sipped his beer. "How about Sherlock and John? Are they safe?"

"Yes. I've got men on Baker Street at all times."

"Trustworthy?"

"The man in charge thinks Sherlock is god's gift to planet Earth, so I should think so."

"Lord," he laughed, "don't let John know."

They shared a smile. Mycroft pushed the sleeves of his jumper up his arms and reached for his bottle on the coffee table.

"Sometimes I think of us as the Three Musketeers, you, John and I," Greg admitted to fill the silence,“and Sherlock is the younger one, the one they looked out for."

"D'artagnan."

" _Gesundheit_."

Mycroft laughed pleasently. "D'artagnan was the character you were referring to. In The Three Musketeers."

"Of course. I knew that."

"Have you read it?"

Greg pursed his lips, sorry he'd even started the damn conversation. "I saw the movie," he admitted lamely.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"Well excuse me! I assume you've read it then."

"Assuredly."

He glared. "I'm actually surprised. I wouldn't have taken you for a novel sort of bloke."

"What do you take me for then?" He challenged.

"I don't know. British Common Law from Time Immemorial?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I'd think that would be more your area of expertise than mine."

"No, I'm more a Steven King fan myself." He received a snort. "Sorry, we can't all be Public School cultured arseholes."

"Hardly. I received it for my fifth birthday, long before I went to Public School or became a cultured arsehole." Greg laughed despite himself. He realized the credits of the movie had long since rolled. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Hear what?" Greg asked with a slightly confused smile.

"The Three Musketeers. I've still got it all up here," he gestured to his head, "if you were interested."

Greg's eyes bugged. "What? The whole thing?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes... that is, it was just a thought, if you were interested in the story."

Greg's first instinct had been to make some flippant allusions to Mycroft's complete ridiculousness but the hesitant offer did something to him. "You don't have to tell the whole thing. Maybe just sum it up."

"All right. It starts in France, obviously."

Greg settled against the arm of the couch and actually found his eyes closing as Mycroft's pleasant voice described the settings and the people, and as the story went on he thought, _This is the most bizarre night I've had in years._

_But I like it._

                                                  ~*~

He woke sometime the next morning and it didn't take long for him to catalogue everything that was wrong with his situation. _Ow, my back_ , was his first thought as he realized he was twisted funny on the sofa, back against the arm, feet still on the floor. Then, secondly, the morning erection pressed into his abdomen, straining for his attention. His house coat had come undone at some point and the wide on was fairly prominently displayed against his cotton trousers. Next, _OH. MY. GOD. Mycroft is in my lap!_ _What do I do?!_

He looked down and sure enough, the man was laying supine in his lap, his arms pillowed on Greg's thigh with his head precariously close to the detective's crotch. He thanked his lucky stars the man was facing away at the very least. His heart kicked up, flushing his skin, the heat of it prickled under his clothes, made him more uncomfortable than he already was. This close he could smell Mycroft’s expensive cologne. He’d caught hints of it before- in his car or as he walked past- but in this context it did something a bit not good to his insides.  

"How?" He mouthed silently to himself. How had they ended up here like this? Last he remembered, they had been sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. Now Mycroft was sprawled out, long ways, legs tucked up and just casual as could be resting there, like he'd been invited. _Christ, he looks so comfortable, so normal. Not at all like a specially trained secret agent..._

When Mycroft suddenly stiffened Greg raised his hand as if burned, the one that had inexplicably rested on Mycroft's side, the one he not only hadn't moved upon wakening but had actually started to vaguely rub at the cashmere beneath it. He left it hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure what to do. Mycroft was clearly awake but hadn't moved yet. Eventually he got so uncomfortable he shifted in his seat, a poor attempt to signal his discomfort. Mycroft shot up so fast he slammed into the opposite arm of the sofa. They stared at each other in mutual horror, neither able to articulate either apologies or explanation. When Mycroft's eyes darted down, Greg thought he'd die of embarrassment. Lord, he knew. _It's not you_ , he wanted to yell, _it's because it's the morning. It's just been a while since I've had anyone in my lap. It was the damn comfy jumper and you're so bloody warm..._

_Oh, god dammit._

"I didn't... um." Greg stammered.  Mycroft licked his lips uncomfortably and Greg's eyes lasered in on the movement.

Greg’s cock gave an uncontrollable twitch.

Mycroft shot up and practically ran for the loo. Greg watched him march off and cursed himself for a fool. His hands crashed into his face and he sucked in great heaps of air. _You can't be serious. This is not my life,_ he mentally whinged. _Why... You can't think he even remotely would have welcomed you, just because he fell asleep on you. He's a tall bloke, he just ended up stretched out in his sleep, for Christ's sake. It wasn't an invitation._

He couldn't take it anymore, he leapt up and sped past the loo as quickly as possible without full on sprinting, headed straight for his bedroom. He was out of his pajamas and into his work suit in record time. The badge, wallet and keys he grabbed by rote and was back in the hallway in seconds.

He hesitated by the loo, just long enough to call out, "I'm headed to work, you can stay as long as you need to," to which no reply came. He grimaced again in embarrassment.

 _Fuck it._ He grabbed his trench coat and left the flat. It wasn't until he got into his car that he realized he didn't have to be at work for another three hours.

                                                  ~*~

The day passed so tortuously slow he found himself contemplating Seppuku with his fountain pen. _You aren't worthy of an honorable death, you twat, don't even think it,_ he chastised as he stared at the birthday gift Donovan had given him two years ago. He choose to think about what a shit husband he had been - how he used a gift from his coworker everyday but hadn't even bothered to take the gift from his wife out of the sodding box - instead of the fact that he'd seriously contemplated kissing, Mycroft Holmes this morning.

"Christ," he exhaled and let his head smack his desk. As if he could forget about it for one second.

It was all backwards. He was actually worried that this would strain their already quite strained working 'relationship', when a year ago he would have longed to get Mycroft off his back. It came to the point where he worried he'd come home and Mycroft would be gone, in the wind, and what then? He'd come to Greg's flat for protection, what would happen if he left? He looked at the clock for the thousandth time. It was only two- far too early to leave- but he had to know if Mycroft had fled. If the bastard got himself killed because Greg had made him too uncomfortable to stay he'd never forgive himself. Not to mention Sherlock's reaction. The younger Holmes might very well pretend to hate his brother, but they were still family. Greg snatched his coat and raced out of the office.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" Donovan called out from her desk as he marched past.

"Lunch," he answered vaguely without stopping.

The drive was interminable. He may or may not have abused his siren more than once to get through a light. The tires squealed as he slammed on the breaks in front of his building and he had to stop and take several deep, steadying breaths before he keyed open the door. God forbid he run into the flat chest heaving like a paper back novel heroine. Mycroft already thought he was trying to molest him. He walked inside and his stomach dropped to see Mycroft's coat gone from the kitchen. He took stock of the rest of the flat before weary acceptance kicked in. The mobile was no use, that he knew. If Mycroft was on the lam, obviously the first thing he would have done was toss his phone.

So that was it. He wouldn't know if Mycroft was okay unless he got ahold of Greg first, and as that seemed unlikely, he'd just have to suffer in the unknown. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock would know if Mycroft had any boltholes but he quickly scrapped that idea. Mycroft obviously wasn't stupid enough to go somewhere he'd be easily found and Sherlock probably wouldn't care to know something like that anyway. Besides, he wasn't sure how far the people Mycroft was hiding from would go to track him, if they would be monitoring Sherlock's phone.

He turned and left the flat. Since he was on impromptu lunch he might as well eat. If he drove to Milly's in a futile attempt to find Mycroft, it was unconsciously done. That's what he told himself as he pulled into a metered parking space down the street from the restaurant.

"Greg!" Milly squealed happily when he walked in. Viv, the waitress, gave a bored smile as he walked by and he tried not to be obvious about scanning the floor for a certain someone.

"Hey, Milly, the usual if you don't mind, but just a Coke. I'm still on duty." He ignored the way Benjamin grimaced at that.

"Sure thing, babe," she winked, "and before you ask, no, I haven't seen His Majesty. I think you need to put a collar on that one if you want to keep track." She cackled on her way to the kitchen. Greg flushed and looked down at the paper menu. They’d only been here once together. Why did she insist on making the assumption? She was worse than Mrs. Hudson. At least there it was obvious Sherlock and John were in love. _It’s not like I ask after him every time,_ he complained internally as he toyed with the menu. He’d stop coming if it weren’t for the fact that she cooked the best burgers he’d ever had in his life. And it didn’t hurt that she never let him pay. Though that was probably more of a bribe not to look in the cellar than respect for his position or his friendship.

Sometime between his Coke arriving but before the sandwich, the bells above the door chimed. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't even bother to look up. He should have.

Greg found himself pulled from his chair by his arm and drug the entirety of the floor like a child. He registered Mycroft just before he yelled out and quickly snapped his mouth shut.

"Milly," Mycroft called out on their way past the kitchen. She looked up as they marched by. "Put the Inspector's sandwich in a box if you would."

Before he could protest he was shoved into an office, nearly tripping over a box of files on the floor as he stumbled inside.

"What the fuck... Where have you been? I've been worried sick-"

Mycroft turned from closing- and _locking_ \- the door and stalked forward in such a fashion that Greg shut his mouth with a click. He had approximately three seconds to process the fact that Mycroft was going to kiss him. The evidence was pretty overwhelming- locked door, prowling, his hands fisted in his coat, the barest hint of hesitation before he hauled Greg forward- but there it was. Before he had time to process if he even really wanted him to, Mycroft kissed him.

_Fucking Hell._

_Okay, I want it._

The once-hated, nearly to the point of wishing the worst upon, mouth of Mycroft Holmes suddenly became the most erotic thing he'd ever come in contact with. There was a second of enjoyed novelty of kissing someone his own height again before the heat of the man's mouth pushed thought from his head. Mycroft let go of the front of his coat once it was clear Greg wasn't going anywhere, and he found himself pulled flush against him. The sudden evidence of Mycroft's enjoyment against his hip made Greg hiss. He shoved until Mycroft backed up, the look of horror on his face replaced with an impressive eye roll once Greg backed him up against the door and palmed his cock through his trousers. He took several shuttering breaths before Greg leaned back in and snogged him again. He tugged at the zip one handed as he worked his tongue into Mycroft's mouth, the desperate whimpering coming from the man egging him on as he worked his hand into the opening and into his pants. Once he got his hand around the hot flesh, Mycroft pulled away to suck in a great gulp of air. His head fell back against the door as Greg pulled up and down and he took the opportunity to attack his throat. Christ, if he thought the man smelled excellent, he tasted even better. He pulled Mycroft free of his trousers and the ease of access gave him more room to work. He adjusted the angle, calling on memories long buried to ramp up the tension. 

"This is fucking mad," he mumbled against the pale skin of Mycroft's throat.

"I don't care," Mycroft breathed.

"Me either."

“I’ve been hard for hours,” Mycroft admitted.

“Christ,” Greg breathed as his stomach dropped in lust.

He used the thumb of his free hand to tilt Mycroft's head, the pressure just behind his ear, and he continued to bite at the man's neck as his tendons pulled tight. Mycroft shook, an ever-deepening groan escaped with each exhale, and Greg grinned against his throat as he felt the cock in his hand swell. Such an excellent reward for a job well done. But he wasn't finished.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes, come in my hand," he whispered into his ear. 

"Gr... Greg... Gregory," he stuttered, part warning, part praise. The sound of his name on those lips, for the first time, like that...Greg pressed his erection into Mycroft's hip and moaned with the dual sensation of delicious pressure and Mycroft coming apart in his arms. The warm, liquid pulse from his cock felt like a triumphant win, like he'd tamed a wild thing.

"Well, that answers that question," he mumbled into Mycroft's ear and stroked a hand over his hip.

Mycroft rolled his head lazily and looked on with just the slightest questioning gaze. Mostly he just looked well shagged.

"If you were... capable." He teased and then grinned at Mycroft's scowl.

Faster than he would have thought possible, he found himself pinned against the door, their positions reversed so quickly his head spun.

"You'll find I'm capable of a lot of things," Mycroft growled and dropped to his knees.

Greg's eyes widened at the sight. "Oh, fucking hell."

His cock was pulled free before he could offer even the most token of protests. _This man has tea with the Queen_ , he thought just before his cock disappeared into Mycroft's mouth. 

"Fuck, oh fuck, shit, Jesus fucking shit, oh Christ, fucking Christ, shit," he babbled incoherently until Mycroft popped off long enough to shush him. He slammed his head against the door as Mycroft went back to it, and Lord have mercy, was he _really going to it_. This was not the first prick Mycroft had sucked, that was certain. The man had no gag reflex to speak of. He would alternate between swallowing him all the way down and then working the end, soft pressure and then hard, his cheeks hollowing with the suction. Greg scratched at the door, unable to stop his hands from clawing in an attempt at controlling the instinct to fist Mycroft's hair. He was doing a perfectly good job on his own, he didn't need Greg setting a pace. It was just too much- the urge to place his hands on this person, and then fearing to do so for who this person was. He might be letting Mycroft Holmes go down on him, but to yank on his hair and drive his head down, that was asking for trouble.

"God, you're so good at this," he mumbled, almost to himself. He received a hum that could have been 'Thank you' or 'Fuck off'. Regardless of which one he decided to just shut up.

Ever since he'd sucked his first cock, Greg had been hyper vigilant not to take too long to get off. He knew it took a lot of stamina to keep that kind of work up and he respected that.

With Mycroft he didn't have to worry about taking too long. He played his cock like a musical instrument; with finesse and perfect control. His orgasm was teased out at just the perfect moment, every movement under his command. Perhaps later when he was able to think it over, it was a little too precise, maybe he'd prefer Mycroft wild, unable to control anything, but at the moment he couldn't be arsed to care.

Mycroft dug further into his trousers and pulled at his bullocks, just enough to send him over the edge.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to come. My, I'm going to come."

He received a hum of pleased acceptance and Greg lost it. It crashed over him, buckled his knees, whimpered from his throat, and most assuredly spilled from his cock down Mycroft's throat.

"Ah," he cried softly as Mycroft licked him clean, just this side of too sensitive. His legs buckled and he slid down the door until his arse met the floor. Mycroft chuckled and moved to sit next to him. Milly had a mini refrigerator in her office and Mycroft didn't hesitate to lean over and raid it. He pulled a bottle of Sprite from the shelf and downed half the bottle before handing it over to Greg. He took it with a smile of thanks and chugged the rest. They sat quietly for a moment, only the sound of their breathes, and faintly Milly's voice from the kitchen, could be heard. 

"Stop the presses. Mycroft fucking Holmes is the gold medalist of sucking cock."

"You seem surprised," he drawled.

Greg rolled his head to give him an incredulous stare. "Yeah, a bit."

"I excel in every endeavor." Gallic shrug.

Greg laughed. "If I could move I would punch you." He chuckled again. "You know the old saying 'Close your eyes and think of England'? With you it's almost impossible not to."

"I think I'm insulted," he replied, dryly.

He laughed again and slapped a hand down onto Mycroft's thigh, giving it a squeeze. "Don't be. It's more to do with your profession than a lack of interest on my part. Trust me."

Mycroft groaned and scrubbed both hands over his face. "I do, that's part of the problem."

Greg turned and stared until Myroft looked at him. He must have read the confusion there.

"I believe this has been a mistake," he explained. 

Greg knew there was nothing he could do to keep from Mycroft knowing how affected he was by that, so he didn't even try.

"Wow," he pursed his lips, "all right. Not even five minutes after. That's got to be some kind of record." He adjusted his trousers with as much dignity as he could and stood. When Mycroft's hand snatched his wrist he froze.

"Do not misunderstand," the man commanded.

"What was there to misunderstand? That was pretty clear cut."

"I _want_ to do this again," Mycroft practically growled. "And again. And again. In my profession that is a mistake. Losing control, putting personal needs above those of my professional responsibilities is a mistake. But you make me want to. Do not misunderstand me in this, if I choose to continue to see you, it is a mistake that could cost people their lives."

What was he supposed to say to that? Argue that peoples lives didn't matter compared to good head? "Then don't. We both know that's not worth it."

Mycroft stared up at him. Greg didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so conflicted. His conscience wavered in the face of such want. _Mycroft is probably the smartest man in the world,_ he excused to himself, _if he can't balance an affair and the country of England than nobody could._ With the trepidation one used when approaching wounded animals, he lowered himself to his knees. He looked into Mycroft's blue eyes and steeled himself to make an offer.

"What do you want to do?" Greg asked softly. Mycroft opened his mouth but nothing came out. "Look, I never expected this, honestly. This morning, that was... I didn't mean for you to see that. If you want this to have been a onetime thing, I'll understand." He swallowed but didn't look away. "But, if you want to maybe... I don't know, blow off some steam every once in a while," he smiled tentatively, "you know where I live."

Mycroft nodded and he looked down as his thumb caressed Greg's wrist bone. 

"It's ill advised," he said with a nervous lick of his lips, "but so was Operation Ellamy."

"You lost me. Are we on or off?"

"On, until I come to my senses."

Greg smiled and leant in to whisper against the man's lips, "Hope that takes a while."

They both jumped and flew apart when a pounding came from the other side of the door.

"So help me, Mycroft Holmes, if there’s jizz on my desk, I'll drain the damn Bank of England dry in furniture replacement. Greg, your burger is getting cold."

They stared at each other in embarrassed silence for a moment. Mycroft tried to be subtle about scrubbing his shoe over the stain on the floor.

"She reminds me a bit of my Gram," Greg admitted. Mycroft stared at him before he suddenly burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Greg joined in and they snickered the tension of the previous minutes away.

"Help me up," Mycroft commanded after a bit and they staggered into a standing position.

Greg scrubbed a hand over his hair. "So, I didn't get a chance to ask, but are you all right? I mean, is it safe for you to be out and about?"

"Yes. I do apologize again for intruding last night. I shouldn't need to do that again."

"I thought we agreed you can do that whenever you want."

He hummed. "I think, if we continue this affair, we should do so in my home rather than yours. I have precautions in place, round the clock security staff, that sort of thing."

"Didn't help you last night," he pointed out.

"That was a fluke. It should be settled by this evening."

"All right. I, uh, I don't know where you live though."

Mycroft smirked. "I will have my people contact your people."

"Oh, wonderful. I'll look forward to Donovan popping into my office telling me there's a car downstairs ready to pick me up for my booty call."

He received a glare. "I do not do _booty calls_."

Greg did his very best not to cackle at the momentous occasion of Mycroft Holmes saying _b_ _ooty call._ "Oh, I'm sorry. What do you call it in your circles when two people get together for a shag?"

"A liaison."

Greg tried not to laugh at that as well but failed. "I must be the easiest sod on the planet. Between the hamburgers and the blow job, you've got me purring like a kitten. I almost forgot what a posh git you are."

Mycroft's face shuttered and Greg immediately felt badly for speaking. He pulled the man forward by his coat and pecked him on the lips.

"Despite our incredibly rocky start, I am incredibly attracted to you, Holmes," Greg assured him. "I wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't."

Mycroft remained behind that cool exterior and gave a small nod. "It is not required for us to like each other, only that we be sexually compatible. Which we are."

Well, that wasn't what Greg meant but he'd let it go for now. "Oh, darling, you say the sweetest things." He lightly patted Mycroft in the cheek and then shoved him out from in front of the door. "All right, I'm starving and you cost me a warm burger."

He ignored Milly's knowing smirk as he swiped his take away burger from her hand and left the restaurant. Mycroft was a step behind as they made their way to their cars. He stopped just before getting in and turned to watch Mycroft open the door to a black Jag. _Posh git is right._

"So I can expect to hear from you soon? I mean, not just about, you know, that, but about the issue with your employee?" Greg asked awkwardly.

"Yes. I'll be in touch."

Greg smiled. "Good."

He received a nod and they both got into their vehicles.

It wasn't until three stop lights later that he fully understood that he'd just agreed to become friends with benefits with Mycroft Holmes and all the complications therein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Mycroft conveniently needed to stay the night the week after Greg's divorce was finalized...And then chickened out when confronted with the Detective 'D'. What a poor babe. Least he found his courage eventually.  
> So what'cha think so far? Send your comments with a self addressed stamped envelope to: Scruff McGruff Chicago Illinois 60652*
> 
> *omg I'm so old. How many of you get that reference?


	3. Drunk and Disorderly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After things cool down, Greg waits patiently for a call back. When one isn't forth coming he takes matters into his own hands. A deal is tentatively struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Greg and Sally interaction coming up. And we get to take a look inside Mycroft's manor in this chapter. Weeeee!

Two weeks went by with no word from Mycroft. Greg spent the entire time cursing himself for a fool. After the euphoria of orgasm faded he'd immediately regretted the encounter. _What the hell were you thinking? You can't have an affair with the British Government,_  he chastised over and over.There was no viably decent outcome there. The man was still a pain in his arse, always had been and probably always would be; sleeping together wouldn't change that. _If anything it would exacerbate it._  He snickered like a thirteen year old at that thought.

"Sir," Donovan poked her head in his office door.

"Yeah," he snapped his head up in guilt, "what?"

"Gibson says the O'Reily case went cold. The sister was a dead end. Want him to file it?"

Greg scrubbed a hand over his head. She was being casual about it but he knew she was praying he didn't call Sherlock in, as was his usual MO before he let a case go cold. He couldn't do it, not this time. It would be far too tempting to ask where the hell his brother was, why he wasn't utilizing his phone properly.

"Yeah, give him the go ahead."

She beamed. "Will do."

Out of nowhere a thought occurred. "Donovan," he called as she turned.

She stopped and turned back. "Yeah."

He waved her further into the office and nodded for her to sit. "You busy?"

"Not particularly," she replied, wary, but still came in to sit. "Why?"

"Feel free to tell me to fuck off, but I'm curious... You still seeing Anderson on the side?"

Her eyelids slid down. "Fuck off," she replied pleasantly and made to stand.

"No, I'm serious," he coerced. "Sit. C'mon." He waited until she returned. "It's not like it's a secret. I just wanted to ask you why?"

"I don't believe it's any of your business... Sir."

He let out an impatient huff. She was right, of course, but he still needed her advice."Would it make you feel better to know I'm asking because I've found myself in a similar position and I need advice?"

"You?" She raised her eyebrows and laughed until she saw he was serious. "With who?" She asked with an incredulous tone that belayed her lack of belief that he could be screwing someone.

"No one you know." It was true, she'd never met Mycroft officially. "But it's come to my attention that I don't have any experience making really bad relationship decisions in the twenty first century."

"And I do? Is that it?"

"Well, you're sleeping with Anderson, so... yeah."

Her nails went _tap, tap_ on the arm of the chair she sat in. "I _was_ sleeping with Anderson. It was revenge on his part and boredom on mine and it's run its course. I don't know what else to tell you. Dating hasn't changed much in the last ten years. Unless you met on MetroMuffs.com?"

"Tell me that's not a thing please."

"Might be," she shrugged, "who knows these days."

He shuddered. "I'll never understand..."

"So what exactly did you need advice on?"

He belatedly realized Donovan couldn't help him because she couldn't know the truth, and the truth was the crux of the problem. _I want to fuck Sherlock's brother, the most powerful man in England, and he doesn’t have the common decency to call me to set it up._

"Nothing," he shook his head and waved her off, "nothing. Sorry, forget I said anything."

"Don't think I will, actually. You've piqued my interest. And I am a detective."

"I can change that if you'd like."

"You wouldn't, you need me to scare the rookies."

"True," he acknowledged. A sigh escaped and he pushed absently at his pen. He looked up after a beat and asked, "Was it worth it?"

"The affair?" Donovan asked. He nodded. "Not really. It started as a drunken Christmas thing and then it sort of just fizzled out after a while. The only reason I don't feel guilty was she said I had teeth like a horse and Phil says she cheats on him all the time, so..." She shrugged.

 _Phil_ , he thought with a snicker. "So, on the whole, not a worthwhile decision?"

"Are you honestly telling me you're thinking of having an affair with a married woman?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all. Just that it would be extremely ill-advised."

"Those are usually the best ones." She grinned and got up from the chair. "Get at least one good shag in. You're as tense as a tight wire."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

She tipped an imaginary hat and left the office. He was no closer to having an answer than before, and with no word from Mycroft since the last encounter, he was backwards and upside down on a decision. Honestly, he felt a bit used and he'd like the chance to tell the man off at the very least. His pride was the only thing stopping him from making the first contact. There were several cases he could have been drawing the paperwork up on but instead he couldn't seem to do anything but remember the hot weight of Mycroft's prick in his hand, the way his cheeks had hollowed as he sucked him down, the desperate noises they had both made. He'd find the phone in his hand before he made the conscious decision to pick it up, time after time, but then he'd remember that Mycroft had left him on the hook for a fortnight and he'd slap the thing back down. After the fifth time, he grew furious. If only he had a damn answer, he'd be able to finish his work. After several revised texts he punched send into the mobile.

_What happened to your people contacting my people? GL_

There was no word from Mycroft, at least not in the next twenty minutes. When his mobile finally buzzed Greg nearly jumped out of his skin.

 _Sorry. Could you be more specific? I know so many GL's_.

He gaped down at his phone in indignation until he realized Mycroft was surely teasing him. It wasn't like the man didn't have his number programmed into his phone. Or have it memorized after six years.

_The GL that brought you off against the office door of our favourite restaurant a fortnight ago. GL_

_Let's see. A fortnight ago? Oh, yes. That GL. You might consider adding a few more initials to your signature. To allay confusion in the future._

_Do you frequently have liaisons with blokes with GL as their initial? DIGL_

He smirked down at his newly titled signature.

_You've made it more ridiculous. Cheers._

_Are you being sarcastic? I can't tell over the phone. Though I usually can't tell in person either. DIGL_

_Shall I add the colon, right parenthesis? Will that settle your worry?_

_Yes. -DIGL_

_:)_

Greg laughed so hard a passing detective jumped away from the window.

_Excellent. Now you just need a titled signature to go with the emoticon. DIGL_

_I think we both know I don't have an official title._

_Hmm. How about MGPMH? -DIGL_

_Do I even want to know what that's supposed to stand for?_

_Minor Government Position Mycroft Holmes. Obviously. DIGL_

_You are utterly ridiculous and I am mildly insulted. 008MH  
_

Greg nearly sawed his lower lip in half in an attempt not to laugh out loud again. He felt like a damn teenager again. They were flirting. He was flirting with Mycroft Holmes. He looked out the windows of his office to make sure no one was watching him smile down at his phone like a knob.

_Apologies. You know how much respect I have for secret agents. DIGL_

_Respect? Is that what we're calling it? Borderline fetish I'd say._

_Well nobody asked you, did they? And anyway, you're the loon if you don't have a thing for Sean Connery. -DIGL_

_I never said I didn't, but I know too many secret agents to be taken in by the debonair fallacy._

_So you just have a thing for any silver-haired man with a gun? DIGL_

_Perhaps._

Greg pressed his lips together so he'd stop grinning and dared himself to go for it.

_Can I come over tonight? DIGL_

A moment passed, enough time that Greg's heartbeat became obvious in his chest, before he responded.

_Not tonight. Tomorrow._

Greg tempered his disappointment with anticipation. It wasn't a no, it was a not now. He could live with later as long as there _was_ a later.

_All right. Tomorrow. DIGL_

_Not that I owe you an explanation but I'm currently in Dubai. Or it would be tonight._

_Christ, why didn't you say so before now? It must be late there._

_Hardly, they're only three hours ahead. I'm just leaving the meeting now._

_Okay. So not bothering you then? DIGL_

_Inspector, do not labor under the impression that I won't tell you when you're bothering me._

_Right. Holmes. I almost forgot. DIGL_

_And here I'd thought I'd forgotten how to flirt._

_You're doing all right. For a public School Cultured Arsehole. DIGL_

_I'll make sure to give the staff the night off tomorrow._

_Stupidly rich, public school, cultured arsehole. DIGL_

_I can always phone up one of my other GL's if you're no longer available._

_I'm available, you clot. But if your house is in Mayfair I'm done. DIGL_

_:(_

_OMG! DIGL  
_

_I'll have my driver pick you up tomorrow so you can't escape. 8pm_

_It's a date. DIGL_

                                                                                                                      ~*~

And so it was, by the time Greg was in the limo on the way to Mayfair that he decided for the thousandth time in twenty four hours that he'd just turn Mycroft down gently, because this was madness. He sat quietly, bottle of mediocre wine in his lap, watched all the enormous mansions turned shops go by, and chastised himself a fool over and over again. And then seemed to argue with himself over the pros of sleeping with the man at the same time. _This is just stupid. You have nothing in common besides enjoying a mutual wank. So what? That's all there has to be. But I can't just do that, I've never been good at casual sex. Time to teach this old dog a new trick then I say. Oh, just shut up._

They pulled into a private underground garage and Greg was tickled to find that the inside, once the garage door closed behind them, the seemingly normal back end slid open to reveal a longer drive way. They moved along for another fifteen meters or so before they stopped at what looked like a random section of the concrete tunnel. The driver got out, opened his door and motioned for Greg to exit. He did so with a confused scowl.

"This way, sir," he announced and turned away. Greg followed behind, looking about the concrete tunnel for a door. The driver stepped in front of a seemingly random panel and placed his hand on top. It lit up and he quickly punched in a sequence of numbers, which caused the seemingly flush section of concrete to slide open. 

"And Bob's your uncle," Greg muttered, amazed and not a little impressed.

"This way," the driver motioned with his arm, "Follow the hall for ten meters, take a right and then make another right at the first door. Mr. Holmes is expecting you."

"Thanks," Greg mumbled distractedly. He gripped the bottle of Sauvingon like a lifeline and prayed Mycroft's men could keep their mouths shut. He doubted they would be working for the man if they couldn't, but he'd had breaches in his security before, after all. The hall was brightly lit, not like the concrete drive he'd just left, which could be mistaken for a railway tunnel if someone got confused and managed to stumble their way inside, the inner hall was white with dark wooden trim. He admired the hard wood floors and secretly thought, _I could get used to this covert sneaking around._ But, dammit, had he not just made up his mind to let Mycroft down gently and end this farce?

He turned a corner and ran damn near right into Mycroft’s assistant Arabella. She stood against the wall, arms crossed, one heel casually up against the wall, weight on the remaining heel. Greg felt a fission of inexplicable fear skate down his spine, though she looked casual. About as casual as an assassin in Louboutins could look.

“Inspector,” she greeted easily, as if they were meeting out front of NSY as usual.

“Ms. Arabella,” he responded, nervously glancing down at the bottle of wine in his hand.

She smirked. She knew. Of course she did; Mycroft didn’t have idiots working for him.

“He’s just through there,” she instructed with a hitched thumb, indicating the hallway to her right.

He took a few hesitant steps forward. “Right. I’ll just…”

“Inspector?” She called as soon as he’d made it past her.

He did his best not to hunch his shoulders in terror. Christ, why was he so nervous? “Yeah,” he called back and turned.

She walked back and circled around to his front. Casually she leaned close, so close he could make out her expensive perfume- sweet, deceptively so- and whispered, “Do _not_ hurt him. I will be very put out if you disregard me in this.”

Greg shook his head like a child wrongly accused of stealing a sweet. “I… no. I’d never.”

“Good.” She smiled sweetly up at him and adjusted his tie. Not even too tightly, but he swallowed hard regardless. “Mr. Holmes is a grown man. He can take care of himself of course but, for those special occasions, I can provide extra assistance when needed. Do we understand each other, Inspector?”

He nodded again. For some suicidal reason, he opened his mouth and out came, “I’m not… stepping on your toes, am I?”

Her smile froze, as did the hand she’d placed casually on his chest. The heart snatching scene from The Temple of Doom flashed across his mind briefly.

“You think I slept my way up the ladder, Inspector?”

He grimaced in horror. “No, god no. Forget I said anything. Please, I’m sorry, please forget I said that.”

She gave him a closed lipped smile. “I’ll take that advice under consideration.”

With that she stepped back and waved him forward. He had half a mind to walk the rest of the hall backwards just to keep both eyes on her. She smiled until he finally turned and made his way forward with a pounding heart and a new lease on life.

By the time he reached the end of his destination he could already hear Mycroft's voice, so he followed it through an open doorway into what appeared to be Mycroft's kitchen. It was huge, of course, but surprisingly homey, with bright, soft greens and wood accents and pot holders left on the counter and the smell of warm spices. _Like a real person's kitchen_ , he thought stupidly. _C'mon, Lestrade, you know the man has an appetite, why wouldn't he have a real kitchen?_

He looked over in time to see Mycroft pace into the room, mobile to his ear, as he ranted in Arabic to the person on the other line. He was back in his standard suit but he'd removed the jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. Greg thought the contrast of his forest green waistcoat went very well with his ruddy, enraged complexion. Mycroft skirted the island in what looked like muscle memory and, as he turned, made eye contact with Greg as he waited in the doorway. His smile was friendly, excited almost, but he must have read Greg's hesitation - something that he didn't know he was showing in the line of his shoulders perhaps - and his smile fell, fractionally. He reached out and took the bottle from Greg's grasp, looked it over, snarled something to the man on the line and snapped his phone shut.

"Apologies, Inspector, business never ends I'm afraid," he said with a smile. "Thank you," he motioned with the bottle, "I'll put this in ice."

"I'm sure you've got better, I just thought... I wasn't sure about the protocol." Christ he was nervous. More so now than he had been before running into Arabella.

Mycroft turned from the counter slowly. The smile was still there but a mask had dropped into place. "Ah, I see. You've had second thoughts." Greg opened his mouth to explain but Mycroft interrupted. "It's fine, Inspector, truly. You're under no obligation to continue. In fact, it's probably best we didn't. We're both busy men, it was bound to be difficult to maintain any sort of working arrangement, not to mention what my little brother would do if he found out. Why don't we end this now before something happens we can't take back?" He finished with a sardonic smile that was meant to soothe, but instead, Greg found it enraged him. Mycroft hadn't said anything Greg hadn't already said to himself, but for some reason, hearing it from him only served to strengthen his resolve. He'd be damned if Mycroft took the offer off the table before Greg had even properly thought it out. And how dare he act as if didn't matter either way, as if he hadn't gotten himself so worked up he'd practically attacked Greg at Milly's that day.

He marched over to where Mycroft stood, took the bottle from his hand, set it aside and then took the man by the neck and pulled him in. Mycroft couldn't have been surprised by the move - he was always five steps ahead - but he did suck in a surprised breath as their lips met. He placed his fingers gently under Greg's elbows and pulled him closer. 

"You are being stupidly stubborn about this," Mycroft muttered against his lips.

"So?" He replied.

"Hell, I don't know."

"Then shut up."

They resumed snogging against the counter like teenagers until Mycroft, in a flattering gasp, pulled away and rested his forehead against Greg's shoulder.

"All right. An offer." He took another breath to steady himself before rising and looking Greg in the eye. "Stay for dinner, we'll just have a meal, talk and if by the time we're finished we still feel the same, we'll take it from there. No obligations, no pressure, just two men sharing a meal."

"Are you testing my resolve, Mr. Holmes?" He rested his hips against Mycroft's left thigh and watched the man's eyes slide closed, heard the breath escape his lips.

"I am attempting not to spoil the meal my cook so graciously made before I gave her the night off. And also, yes, I am testing your resolve. If by the time the meal is over, you still feel like continuing, haven't changed your mind, I'd be happy to accommodate."

"Oh, yeah?" He chuckled. "So really, if we can put up with each other’s mouths for an hour, we're rewarded with sex, is that it?"

"Hardly-" He stopped at Greg's laugh. "All right, technically, yes, but that's not what I meant."

"No worries, mate, it's like you said. We don't necessarily have to like each other to enjoy our company in other ways." Greg leaned in to kiss him again, proving his point.

Mycroft pulled back enough to look down at his lips. Slowly he brought his hand up, his thumb rubbed absently at Greg's lower lip and, so quiet he almost doubted he heard it, whispered, "But I do like you."

Greg’s brow came together in confused surprise. He realized then that he liked Mycroft too, very much, because Mycroft's admission sparked through him like wild fire and he found he was smiling like a lunatic. "And despite all common sense, I seem to like you as well."

"You like me despite yourself, is that correct?" He asked dryly.

Greg leaned back and scowled. "Need I remind you, Captain Hook, you once left a message pinned to my bedroom door with a dagger?"

Mycroft's grin was worth the cost to repair the door. "Texting is efficient but where's the fun in that?"

Greg took a step away and straightened his coat, a futile attempt to calm his straining erection. "Has anyone ever told you you have an over-developed flair for dramatics?"

He chuckled and reached out to take Greg's coat, which he turned to help slide from his shoulders. "Yes, in fact," he answered as he walked Greg's coat over to a closet and hung it up, "my tutors were quick to point that out to my parents. Apparently I used to study wearing a bed sheet around my neck, claiming I was Count Dracula. Apparently the blood thirsty aspect of my personality was quite ingrained from birth."

Greg had to steady himself with a hand to the counter. _Oh my god, that is the most adorable thing I've ever heard._ "You're not even making that up, are you?"

"Of course not. So they say, anyway. I was young, four or five, I barely remember."

"Liar."

Greg watched as Mycroft's smirk came and went, so quickly it might have been a fluke. He grabbed the wine from the counter and moved toward another hallway. "Follow me, if you would."

He did, through a winding path, quite ridiculous if you asked him, which was mostly closed doors and several off shoot hallways. What was he even doing with all this space? It was absurd. Eventually they came to what was clearly Mycroft’s study, complete with a massive desk dominating the room and the floor to ceiling bookshelves he’d come to expect in a posh person’s library. When the smell of oregano and cilantro hit him, his stomach growled, suddenly more energy going there than his lower half. Mycroft smiled at him and motioned for him to take a seat by the fireplace.

"This is unexpected. I thought we'd be served at a massive dining room table by girls in French maid outfits."

"Hmm," Mycroft hummed as he set their food down on the table between them. "We can move this to the dining room if you prefer but I can't promise the French maids. There are a lot of things Andrea will do but that's not one of them."

"Andrea? Thank you," he said as Mycroft handed him a wooden tray holding a plate of delicious smelling pasta.

"Ah. I believe you know her as Arabella?"

Greg looked up in horror. "Oh, your assistant,” he saved casually. “Yeah, she's a charmer, that one, but uh, I think seeing her dressed up like a maid would cost me more than I'm willing to give." _My life, most likely, or at least a limb._

Mycroft smiled wanly. "You'd be right. _Bon appetit_."

They settled into their meals and it wasn't until sometime later that any real conversation was had, above Greg's grunting of appreciation and Mycroft’s hum of acknowledgments. Greg asked about the conflict in the Middle East, Mycroft denied knowing anything about it, Greg laughed, and they ended up talking about Greg's last case with Sherlock.

"So, I'm running down this flight of stairs, panicking, just frantic. And of course I fall arse over tit down the last flight, right into the door. And your sodding brother pushes the door open, cool as can be, while my legs are tangled around my head, and just gives me one of those sighs. You know the ones- you're good at them, he probably got it from you. John had to hold me back; it was a close thing."

Mycroft chuckled into his wine glass. "Did you catch him? The killer?"

"Oh, I didn't do anything! Sherlock had already subdued him. All I did was read him his rights and put his arse in the car."

"So why the frantic text?"

Greg held his glass up in salute. "Exactly."

"How do you keep from killing him?"

"How did you? You lived with him! How does John for that matter?" He set his empty glass down and stretched his legs out. He was so content, what with his full stomach and the crackling fire; only the promise of sex kept him from falling asleep.

"John subscribes to the notion, 'No one can hurt Sherlock but me.'"

Greg thought back to that sleepy moment on the sofa a fortnight ago and smiled. "What did we decide? Aramis?"

"Yes, I believe so," he agreed with a smile. "And you Porthos and I, myself, as Athos. How clever you were to see it."

"Are you being sarcastic again? I can't tell."

"Colon, right parenthesis."

Greg laughed as he stared into the fireplace. "I suppose you do have a sense of humor after all."

"If you breathe a word of it, I'll have you deported," he threatened. When Greg looked up he received a sly smile.    

Greg grinned back. His cheeks were starting to hurt, he'd smiled so much in the last twenty four hours. "Make it Aruba, if you don't mind. Or possibly Southern Italy."

"I'll see what I can do."

He felt his eyes drifting closed. "You can do whatever you want and you know it," he mumbled. The room grew quiet, and though he knew he was being a right arsehole by falling asleep, he couldn't seem to get up the energy to open his eyes. The pop of the fire, the warmth, the full stomach, the plush chair... the easy companionship. It was all extremely pleasant. It wasn't until he felt two hands skimming up his thighs that he found lots of energy to open his eyes.

"Is that true?" Mycroft asked from his position crouched at Greg's feet.

"What?" Greg breathed. Arousal snaked further up and down his spine as Mycroft's hands gripped him high up his legs, thumbs caressing his inner seam like a silent question.

He looked Greg up and down slowly, processing every line, every stitch of clothing before meeting his eyes again. "Can I do whatever I want?"

Greg swallowed hard. "God yes."

                                                                                                                    ~*~

He woke the next morning with a stiff back, a sore tailbone and rug burn on his elbows. He sat up and looked around, scratched at the back of his head in confusion, before remembering the events of the night before. It was a blur of tongues and legs and most importantly, cocks; so brilliant in fact he was sure he'd wake up to find Mycroft beside him in front of the banked fire. No such luck. He reached over to grab his clothes from the chair, where Mycroft had so graciously laid them out straight before departing apparently, and found a note folded and addressed to him as it fell to the floor. He pulled his pants and vest on before reading, as his naked arse felt a bit too vulnerable in the huge office without Mycroft there to fill the space.

_Gregory, I've been called away on business this morning I'm afraid. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. You have free reign of the house, just stay out of the basement. No matter what that man offers you, do not let him out of his cage. I took the liberty of having your car brought round so you can leave at your own convenience. I'll be in touch again soon. -M_

Greg laughed aloud at that. He hoped Mycroft was joking but who knew really. Best not to go exploring.

He dressed quickly and, with a last curious look around the room, left to raid the kitchen. _Should have left some breadcrumbs_ , he mused as it took him twice as long to get back to the kitchen as it had taken to get to the study the night before. Mycroft really had no business with all this space.  _Posh git._ He was only mildly surprised to find the pantry stuffed full to bursting with goodies when he arrived. No wonder Sherlock teased his older brother about his weight. Greg got the feeling Mycroft had been a lot heavier in his youth. He would have to have been; the sweet tooth he had was quite apparent. His gym was probably just as huge. He chuckled to himself as he bypassed the box of Weetabix that looked like it had sat there for ages to pull the box of sugar puffs off the shelf.

He looked around the huge kitchen as he chewed his breakfast and wondered if he could really see himself here in any permanent fashion. It was a toxic thought, one that had got him into trouble more than once, but it was instinctual. He never was any good at casual. Every relationship he'd ever had had been given his full commitment. That was part of his issue with Dawn, he'd just assumed that because he loved her that it would be enough, that she was just as committed. He was wrong. Knowing what he was doing with Mycroft wasn't in any way shape or form permanent didn't stop him from imagining what a relationship with him would be like. He firstly had to acknowledge their vastly different backgrounds, their financial gap, and the enormous intelligence gap.

"Cavern, more like," he mumbled aloud.

He tapped his spoon against the side of his bowl in contemplation. He thought about the way Mycroft paced the kitchen as he ranted on the phone. The way he'd lounged against the counter, bracketed by Greg's arms. Pictured what he would be doing now if they were having breakfast together, sitting across the island from each other, or maybe next to each other. A year ago he wouldn't have picture Mycroft sitting still at his kitchen counter eating a bowl of cereal. He'd never given Mycroft's eating habits a second of thought, but if he had, he'd have imagined the man taking his meals intravenously while he paced the floor of some underground concrete bunker. Now he knew better. He could see them together here, eating, chatting, fucking. Just living, really.

He dropped his spoon in the bowl with a clatter. _You've had two meals and two sexual encounters and now you're mentally moving in?_ Granted, they were both fantastic encounters, but that was beside the point.

He calmly picked his bowl up, set it in the sink, ran the water, snagged his coat from the closet and then bolted from the room as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. The panel that allowed him to leave the hallway was easier to open from the inside, he just pushed the electronic screen icon that said 'Open'. As soon as he could he rushed from the hall to find his sedan waiting in the tunnel. He silently thanked Mycroft for the thoughtful gesture, even though, in true Mycroft form, it was presumptuous of him to have someone else drive his car over. He didn't even have to adjust the mirror or the seat. The secret garage door panel slid open as soon as he backed up to it, same with the outer door. On his way back to his flat he kept his mind on task, just the blissful empty-headed state of the recently shagged, and not on whether he should bring a change of clothes the next time he came over to Mayfair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg is so me at sixteen. Poor guy.
> 
> I'd like to give a shout out to [superblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue) for the inspiration about Greg's text signature and his suggestion of MGPMH for Mycroft. That shit is golden and it was all her.


	4. Taken without Owners Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a change of heart once Greg shows his hand and comes a bit too close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild Dub Con in this one.  
> Also, severe angst up ahead. Mycroft is a fucking bastard this chapter. I'm so sorry.

_ Two months later. _

 

 

"It's not your-"

"Don't," Greg snapped, hand up to ward off Donovan's platitudes. "It is and we all know it is."

"She was her own person, sir," she kept on, using 'sir' like an expletive. "You didn't control her actions, it was her decision to lure him out." She gestured at the body. "And we got him."

"You think it was worth it?" He quietly asked her, daring her to continue.

She looked ready to argue but Greg knew the look on his face, the way his body radiating confrontation, must have reached her lizard brain on some level. She normally didn't back down from confrontation, especially with him. But she did now.

"No, sir," she conceded, equally as quiet. "But he won't be hurting anyone ever again. That's a win in my book."

Greg glanced down at Laurel McCoy's body. The blood spray from her cut jugular had reached nearly across the room; her killer lay to the side, where a bullet from the armed unit had found its mark, right between his eyes. If only he'd said the right words... She was only nineteen.

He closed his eyes and walked away. "Have the paper work on my desk by tomorrow. If ICPP calls, tell them to fuck off."

"Are you going home?" She called out.

"Yes."

_Home._

Home turned out to be an expansive white marble affair in Mayfair. He hadn't even made the conscious decision to go but he found himself in the garage and as the door closed behind him he breathed a sigh of relief. He was tired of pretending like this wasn't where he wanted to be, like he didn't think about Mycoft more often than not, like he hadn't been in too deep from the moment the man had broken into his flat in the middle of the night looking for solace. He'd been good these last few weeks, pretending like coming here wasn't the highlight of his week, that seeing Mycroft didn't make everything else disappear. But he was just so bloody tired of pretending. The garage door slid open for him and he made for the hall as soon as the car was parked, thankful that he'd been given his own passcode, that Mycroft's security knew him so he could come and go as he pleased. He trudged down the long hallway at a steady march but turned down a different hall once he made it to the kitchen. 

He made his way up the back staircase, footsteps heavy with exhaustion, as if he'd done it a thousand times before, though it had only ever been once. He'd memorized the location of Mycroft's bedroom one afternoon after he'd woken up, again, to find himself alone in the house. The curiosity had been too much to handle. They'd never actually had sex there; the sitting room, his office, an adjoining bath, his massive dining table, and most notably the kitchen, but never his bedroom, and he felt the pull of that seemingly forbidden place like the tide. He hadn't really minded never sleeping there, except for the occasional bad back from waking on the floor. It was Mycroft's prerogative and he'd be thankful for what he could get.

It hadn't even occurred to him that the owner might not even be home, not until he saw the light under the bedroom door and heard the shuffling of papers. Even if he'd been out, Greg still would have fallen into his bed with a contentment he hadn't known since... well, forever, maybe. He would take an empty bed- as long as it smelled like Mycroft's expensive cologne, as long as he knew My would eventually come back.

He pushed the door open slowly and let out a breath of relief. Mycroft sat up against the headboard of his massive bed, royal blue silk sleepwear looking entirely too perfect on him, a mess of paperwork spread out over his lap and a pair of gold spectacles perched on his nose. He looked up when the door swung open, his head coming down in an endearing tilt so he could look over the tops of his glasses.

His arm came down heavily in his lap, the paper he'd been reading forgotten. "Gregory? What are you doing here?"

Greg didn't answer, just shrugged his coat off and threw it over the back of a chair. He toed off his shoes, pulled his suit jacket, shirt and vest off and lazily walked out of his trousers. Mycroft watched as Greg lifted the blankets and rolled into his bed with a hum of contentment. He knew he'd never done this before, and he was probably crossing a line somewhere, but dammit, he didn't have any lines anymore, and if Mycroft wanted him gone he'd damn well have to roll him out of bed himself. He was just so bloody _tired._

He shuffled until he could get closer to where Mycroft sat, still above the covers. His warmth radiated through the thick down blanket and Greg felt the stress of the last twenty four hours melt away.

"I have to be up early in the morning," Mycroft quietly announced, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"That's fine. You don't mind if I stay do you?" Greg mumbled, half asleep already.

"Well, no. But..."

"I'm not looking for sex, My. I just want to sleep. And I wanted to be near you," he admitted in his nearly unconscious state. He'd probably come to regret that confession in the morning but right now he couldn't be arsed to care.

"Something happened," he stated. "Do you want to talk about it?"

As if he couldn't guess by the way Greg was nearly asleep at his hip. "No," he groaned.

"I have to continue reading for a bit longer."

"Mmmhmm," Greg mumbled. After approximately twenty seconds of silence he was dead asleep.

He woke later, softly, as Mycroft turned off the light and crawled under the covers. Instinctively Greg reached out and pulled him closer, turning them so they fit snugly together, knees, hips, and shoulders. After a second of hesitation Mycroft took Greg’s hand and pulled it higher, clasped it tightly to his chest. Greg smiled against his neck and fell instantly back to sleep.

                                                                                                                     ~*~

The next morning Greg awoke at nine thirty to find the room in quiet darkness. He looked up at the window. Ah, of course Mycroft would have black out curtains, his schedule was so erratic.

He rolled over to find, predictably, the man was gone. He'd not fallen asleep at Mycroft's place once and awoken to find the man still there next to him. Christ, he must only sleep an hour a night. Greg stretched lazily and rolled to plant his face in Mycroft's pillow. The scent of the owner's shampoo filled his head and he breathed it in, fully aware that he looked like a teenage girl in doing so. His phone buzzed angrily from the floor, causing him to growl into the mattress. He had to roll several times to reach the other side of the bed, to where his trousers lay on the floor. The text was from Donovan, asking how long she was meant to hold the ICPP at bay. He texted back that it would be a while before he made it in. It was a twenty five minute drive back to his flat in Brentford from there, plus another half hour back to NSY. 

He stood and dressed quickly, wondering if he should take the time to hop in the shower when he got home or skip it altogether. As he slid his shoes back on he happened to glance at the small writing desk in the corner, where his coat was draped on the chair. A note was folded on top, a note with his name on it, written in Mycroft's flourishing script. His throat constricted painfully as inexplicable fear gripped him. My hadn't left him an actual note since that first morning, when he'd woken alone on the floor in the study. His hand shook as he reached out and picked it up. If he wasn't so terrified, he'd laugh at the horror movie quality the whole scene had taken on.

_Gregory, I have made the decision to draw our liaison to a close. It seems our attachment has run its course and, though I expect to remain on civil terms, I would appreciate it if we ceased superfluous communication. Do feel free to continue to contact me in relation to Sherlock. -M  
_

Greg dropped heavily into the chair, nearly missing it altogether. The moment seemed to take on a surreal quality, as if he had stepped outside of it and looked on from somewhere else. The detective in him was searching for clues, the exact moment he had trespassed. Was it really so wrong of him to have come last night, in his moment of weakness? That he had sought comfort was somehow against the rules they hadn't even negotiated? He started to shake, his body running hot and cold as he internally struggled to come to terms with this sudden collapse of steady happiness. He felt as if the rug had been pulled out from underneath him. He’d been very much in the process of falling in love with Mycroft Holmes. What was he supposed to do now?

Somehow, he managed to reach into his pocket to retrieve his phone. His fingers pushed the number two button - he'd moved My to speed dial after the first week - and he put the phone to his ear. It rang out.

"You fucking coward," he growled as he punched the end button. He was tipping towards hot as his heart picked up its pace in anger. What a complete bastard, writing Greg a fucking Dear John letter after showing just the tiniest bit of emotional contentment. He punched out a text, full of extremely uncivil language, and hit send. And then he stared at the screen for ten minutes. No reply came. In his infinite wisdom, he started scrolling through the highlights of their texts from the last two months.

**Feb. 22nd 2011**

_Thank you for laying my clothes out this morning. As you can tell, it wasn't on my list of priorities last night. DIGL_

_I'd like to take credit but that wasn't me. Most likely my maid, Tippy._

_Are you fucking serious?! I was starkers on the floor! DIGL_

_As you would so charmingly put it, I'm taking the piss. My staff had the night off, remember?_

_You! You almost gave me a damn heart attack. DIGL_

_Apologies, Inspector._

_Don't you ‘Apologies Inspector’ me. I know you're grinning like a loon. I hope you're in a room full of important people right now, so they can see you looking down at your phone under the table like some punk kid. DIGL_

_I'm in a sauna with six Russian dignitaries_ _._

 _Why do I get the feeling you're_ _lying? DIGL_

_You're not an idiot._

_I'm going to print that and frame it. Show it off to your brother next time he insults me in front of my guys. DIGL_

_I dare you to. Tell him we're shagging as well while you're at it. I've always wanted to see him swoon like a southern belle._

_Oh that is tempting. DIGL_

**March 2 nd 2011**

_Do you know you suck in your stomach whenever your brother's name is brought up? DIGL_

_I do not._

_Yes you do. It's adorable. DIGL_

_Nothing about me is adorable, Inspector._

_I know this isn't a 'Meet the Parents' sort of arrangement but if it were I'd ask your mum if she had pictures of you dressed as Dracula. Bet those would be adorable. DIGL_

_I regret telling you that story._

_That means there are pictures... DIGL_

_No there aren't._

_Yeah there are. DIGL_

_It is a gross misuse of my power if I send men into my parent's_ _home to blow torch our family albums Gregory. Decease with this line of inquiry._

_XD DIGL_

_> :( _

**March 6th 2011**

_Which do you prefer, strawberry or pina colada? DIGL_

_Why?_

_Daiquiris? DIGL_

_Put the lube back, Gregory._

_No. I'm getting strawberry. DIGL_

_I don't need incentive to go down on you and I hope the same applies for you._

_Of course not, just thought it'd be fun. How do you feel about nipple clamps? DIGL_

_Leave the sex shop immediately or I'll have you deported._

_Rio, if you're taking suggestions. How about toys? Any strong feelings about those? DIGL_

_I'm putting my phone in my desk and I'm closing the drawer._

_Fine. It'll be a surprise then. DIGL_

_You're holding a bottle of strawberry flavored lubricant and a stick with a feather on the end. Put them back and exit the shop before I tell the owner, Phil, that you're a wanted criminal._

_Phil really just asked me to leave, you twat. DIGL_

_I did warn you._

_Quit using your power for evil Mycroft Holmes. What would Uncle Ben say? DIGL_

_Two fingered salutes, Gregory? What would the Chief Superintendent say?_

_I'm going to make you pay for that. I really wanted that lube. DIGL_

_I'll make it up to you. I have an '03 Dom Rose in the cellar we can use._

_Omg Mycroft! I'm not pouring the best vintage wine to come out in ten years on your cock! What the hell is wrong with you?  
_

**March 12 th 2011**

_I get the feeling that you don't sleep. If I poked and prodded you, would I find wires and circuitry? DIGL_

_Poking and prodding are my job, Gregory._

_Haha, very funny. I'm serious though. It's not that weird to fall asleep after sex. But you never do. And you're always gone when I wake up. Is that normal for you? Just wondering. DIGL_

_Not all of us can afford to slump over like felled chattel after coitus, Inspector. Papers tend to get filed in the wrong drawer that way.  
_

_Right. Forget I said anything. DIGL_

_Are you regretting the_ _venue perhaps? I never said you had to fall asleep on the sofa._

_Maybe you shouldn't have bent me over the arm of it then, knowing my penchant for slumping over like felled chattel. DIGL_

_This is an inopportune time to discuss last nights activities Gregory._

_> :) DIGL_

_Don't._

_(CLICK TO OPEN PICTURE MESSAGE)_

_I hate you._

_No you don't. DIGL_

_Perhaps not but I believe I just agreed to bomb Bolivia because of that little stunt._

_What is a paper pusher like you doing with that kind of power? Get away from the red button. DIGL_

 

**March 20th 2011**

_Ha! DIGL_

_Why am I being laughed at, pray tell?_

_You fell asleep last night! DIGL_

_Prove it._

_I saw you. I was faking. DIGL_

_You are mistaken. Question the downstairs tenant again. He heard the whole thing, he just doesn't want to get involved because he's been embezzling from his night job._

_Nice subject change Sherlock Sr. DIGL_

_And stay off the damn police banner. DIGL_

_This meeting is boring. I'd rather you were under the table with a mouthful of my cock._

_God damn you Holmes! I'm at a bloody crime scene! DIGL_

_Oh, no. I'm only Holmes when I've done something wrong. Is it uncouth of me to send inappropriate messages when you're working?_

_If you're expecting me to apologize for the dick pic last week it will be a cold day in hell. DIGL_

_No I'd never expect that. I enjoyed the picture very much. I added it to my collection. It's filed under GL with the rest._

_Stop making me laugh. Someone died, you unbelievable berk. Your brother will be here any minute, do you want him to deduce where my tongue was early this morning? DIGL_

_Did I not already give you the tools to solve your case, Inspector? You rely on my brother far too much._

_Are you volunteering your services then? The pay isn't great but we have pretty decent health insurance for consultants. DIGL_

_You use the plural as if there were more than just the one._

_Well I have two now. The bloke downstairs just gave up the name of our killer. Sherlock is livid, made me pay for his fare back home. Lol. DIGL_

_All in a days work._

**April 3 rd 2011**

_It's going to be a full week until I return. Sorry to have disturbed you last night._

_Disturbed is putting it mildly. Does that happen often? DIGL_

_Yes, not very often, but it does happen I'm afraid. Feel free to stay in my home as long as you need. Tippy will be back this afternoon but she's been apprised of your presence. Again, I apologize for the abrupt cancellation of our plans._

_That's all right. I've got a case that's going to take up a lot of my time anyway. Just stay safe. DIGL_

_Paper cuts are the worst I'll be facing, I assure you._

_I'm serious, My. I might not be in the inner circle but I'm not an idiot. Men in Kevlar don't burst into most peoples dinner dates and rush one of the party away under the cover of darkness. Just, whatever it is that you're involved in at this point, be careful. DIGL_

_I appreciate your concern, Gregory. I do. Despite what my actions the first night of our liaison might have persuaded you, I am no longer involved with the footwork, of that I can assure you. I'll be out of the country for the next six days but under secure conditions. Have faith._

_I trust your judgment. DIGL_

_Remember you said that._

_Yeah yeah. Bring me back a souvenir. DIGL_

**April 15 th 2011**

_Your brother is onto us. DIGL_

_I just spit tea on the Prime Minister. Please refrain from making bold statements like that again in the future._

_I hope you're joking. DIGL_

_I wish I were.  
_

_Why the bloody fuck would you answer your phone if you were having tea with the Prime Minister?! DIGL_

_It's a hazard of my field and he knows it. Normally I'm answering important messages. Not frantic, delusional ones._

_I'm not delusional. He was sniffing me today. I think he recognized your cologne. On the fly I said you had kidnapped me this morning and the smell must have rubbed off from in your car. The only reason why he bought it was because I’m fairly sure his brain can’t comprehend the truth. I told you he guessed I was seeing someone a few weeks back, he's decided it'_ _s a mystery to be solved and you know what that means, eventually he’s going to figure it out_ _._ _DIGL_

_And I thought the whole point of having an assistant was so she could filter your messages? DIGL_

_She does filter my messages. I said I answer the important ones._

_.... DIGL_

_Am I to take from that that you're speechless?_

_Yeah actually. I'm trying to work out if you meant I'm important or if you just don't want her to see pictures of my cock. DIGL_

_Perhaps a bit of both._

 

 

The last line of texts had come from just a few days ago, that bit about important messages from him and all that. He should have seen this coming but he really hadn’t. Just last week he’d found empty beer bottles in Mycroft’s kitchen trash. Peach flavoured. And they hadn’t been for Greg because he certainly hadn’t drank them. Mycroft Holmes was drinking flavoured beer on his own when Greg wasn’t even around. Greg had no idea what to make of it but it had to mean something. There had been a rather significant flutter in his stomach at the sight. He'd thought it'd meant _something._  

He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white and he had to drop the phone in favour of raking his nails across his scalp. The sting did little to calm his system, his pulse still raced, his thoughts still beat against the inside of his skull in painful 'I told you so's. Sure, he knew the liaison was temporary, he'd forced himself to accept that idea over and over, but eight weeks? Was that really all he got? _If you'd kept it casual he wouldn't have broken it off, you fucking sod,_ his brain helpfully supplied. _You knew when you walked into his bedroom you were crossing a line and you crawled into his fucking bed anyway. If you doubted his resolve it's your own fault for being naive._

"Yes, thank you," Greg muttered aloud to himself as he stood. He scooped the phone from the floor and tugged his coat from the chair and marched off without a backward glance.

By the time he made it to his car, Donovan had texted six more times, asking where the hell he was. His anger had dissipated into a safe form of apathy when he finally decided to skip going home and just to drive to the office. He didn't care if his suit was yesterday's obviously wrinkled affair, or that there may or may not be blood splatter on the cuffs of his trousers that probably should have been collected with evidence. He marched into his office and slammed the door with his heel. At least two officers turned and walked in the opposite direction at the crash. Donovan on the other hand...

"The fuck?" She snapped as she followed in behind him. "You trying to break the glass?"

"What's it to you? Your daddy a window maker?" He snapped back as he dropped into his chair.

"He's a defense attorney." She eyeballed him, hand on her hip like a half-cocked super hero, daring him to comment. Greg sneered uncharacteristically and turned for his water bottle. She watched silently as he sprayed his plants. If he pulled the lever like he was pumping rounds into an assailant, clearly over watering them in his fervour, she didn't point it out.

"What?" He finally barked.

"Something happened? Did ICPP call?" She moved to sit at his desk.

"No, not yet." He set the bottle down and turned his computer on. His breathing gradually returned to normal as the familiar whir of the fan kicked on and he chanced a look at Sally. She seemed to wait patiently for his confession. Well, she'd be waiting for a while. "Anything I can help you with, Sergeant?"

"Not unless there's something you need from me," she hedged carefully.

He stared at the start up menu on his computer screen. For a split, insanity driven second he came close to opening his big fucking mouth and blurting out the truth. But, saved by the bell, his in-house line rang, startling them both out of the quiet moment.

"D.I. Lestrade," he answered.

Sally took her leave with a small, concerned frown. Greg ignored her.

"Lestrade, it's the Chief. Come up here, would you?"

Greg's palm sweated on the cradle. "Yes, sir. Be up in five."

They both hung up and Greg swore aloud as he pushed himself away from his desk. It was shit like this that made him wish Mycroft had made good on his threat to deport him. As if being carved inside out over that situation wasn't enough, getting a young girl killed last night wasn’t enough, he was going to get reamed by his boss for his ineptitude. His guilt wasn't _near_ enough, no, they would suspend him too, and then he could spend some quality alone time in his shoebox flat with his sad take out and his flavoured beer. _No more five star restaurant quality chefs for you, Greg,_ he thought as he rode the lift. Yeah, cause that's what he was going to miss the most...

"Come in, Greg," the Chief called out when he knocked.

“What can I do for you, Chief?” He asked as he sat down.

“Not what you can do for me, what I can do for you,” he informed with a smug smile.

Greg took a shaky breath. So far, so good. He didn’t look upset at least, that was a good sign. “Yeah?”

“Word came down from the big guys, they want to give you a promotion.” He grinned. “What do you think?”

He stared blankly at the Chief, desperately trying to deduce motive. “What?”

“For catching the Barking Butcher. That was an impressive collar, Lestrade, and you deserve recognition.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Greg licked his lips, “a young girl was killed last night. It didn’t exactly go off without a hitch.”

The Chief nodded solemnly. “Yes, that was unfortunate but the important thing is he’ll never hurt another girl again. We have you to thank for that. I’d have offered first but word came down this morning from on high and I couldn’t agree more.”

A sinking feeling filled his stomach. “From who exactly?”

The Chief frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean whose idea was it exactly?”

“Well,” he tapped into his computer and read over the email, “it didn’t say exactly. Just that the order was given. Why?”

Blood rushed hot under his skin, boiled in his veins, and he gripped the wooden handles of the chair in rage. The Chief was talking but Greg didn’t catch any of it past the rush in his ears. Without acknowledgment he stood and stomped off.

The next few minutes went by in a blur. Before he knew it he was pulling up to Mycroft’s garage door. Only, _surprise,_ it no longer opened for him. He growled low as he backed up and pulled around the block to the front of the house.

“Try and stop me, you pretentious shit,” he grumbled as he parked illegally on the street. “I’ll wait all fucking day if I have to.”

He ran up the white marble steps two at a time and proceeded to pound on the front door like the twenty year veteran police officer he was. When the door finally opened, it was by a man, freakishly tall, obviously security, who frowned down at Greg like he’d interrupted his morning crossword. He tried to muscle past but received a beefy arm to his chest.

“Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Holmes has requested privacy this morning,” the beast reported congenially.

That meant, bastard that he was, he’d waited until Greg left to return home, but it was fine. It proved that he _was_ home. Greg scowled up at him, a look that worked on punk kids but not so much glorified butlers with missing necks and Israli Military tattoos peeking out from underneath their uniforms.

“Let me by, this is official police business,” he snapped, trying again to get past.

“Do you have a warrant?” The guard asked smugly. It was clear he knew who Greg was and why he was there.

Greg tenuous patience snapped. “No but I’ve got something better.”

He received a raised eyebrow.

“Information I’m not afraid to spill. Now move,” he calmly commanded.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you-“

Greg punched him in the lower abdomen and twisted underneath his arm at the last second. He made it as far as the umbrella stand before the brute tackled him to the floor. The Persian runner broke his fall, somewhat, but 280lbs of force still came down on his back, pinning his arms, so the runner was really the only good thing going for him.

“Sir,” the bastard snapped, “desist or I’ll be forced to call for backup.”

“Backup,” Greg snorted, “let me guess. Armored tank?”

“I’m not afraid to break your arm. Stop squirming, please.”

“Not,” he continued to twist back and forth, “until you get your fucking boss down here. I’m not leaving until I speak to him.”

“On the contrary, you’re leaving right now.” The guard attempted to pick him up but Greg immediately kicked out, smashing his heel into the man’s ankle. The guard hissed in pain and dropped Greg back to the floor. He scrambled but fell flat when his opponent’s knee planted itself in his lower back.

“Let me go. Dammit, I am a London Metro Police Detective, you can’t do this.”

“I could throw you into the basement for the next hundred years and no one would ever find you,” the man hissed in his ear.

The last of his patience fled. “Mycroft!” He bellowed, his voice echoing down the stretch of marble floor in front of him. “God damn you, you fucking coward!”

The guard rattled him against the floor. “Stop that this instant.”

“No! Mycroft Holmes, I know you’re here!”

“What in god’s name,” the man himself finally appeared. He'd clearly been in the middle of his work out, as he had a towel strung over his left shoulder and his face was still flushed and dewy. Greg swallowed down the spike of lust that speared his throat and landed in his stomach.

“Get your damn attack dog off me,” he commanded. Mycroft nodded at the guard to let him up. He dug in his knee one more time before reluctantly letting go. Greg stood and brushed himself off with what little dignity he could given the situation.

“Inspector-,” Mycroft started to say but Greg shouldered past him and stomped off towards his study. He heard a put upon sigh behind him but then steps reluctantly followed.

Once inside the room he waited for Mycroft to come walk in and then slammed the door behind him.

“How dare you,” Greg breathed, rage colouring every word.

“Inspector,” he started again but Greg cut him off.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Inspector’ me.”

“Look,” he set the towel down on the back of the chair in front of his desk, “I understand you’re upset about the way things ended so abruptly but you’ll find it is for the best. Our lifestyles are just not conducive to a steady relationship. I’m sure you understand.”

Greg stood with his arms crossed. “You done?”

“I… yes.”

“Why did you try to have me promoted?”

Mycroft's lips turned down at the corners. “You’re not going to accept?” He finally asked calmly, as if the answer didn’t matter a bit.

“Let you buy me off like some cheap bit of tail? No.”

“You deserve the promotion, Inspector. You are an upstanding detective and a fine example of the London-“

He stopped when Greg came at him. His hand fisted in Mycroft’s nylon top and he just barely stopped from back-handing the bastard like a bad daytime soap villain.

  
“Don’t,” he seethed. “Don’t you fucking placate me. I didn’t like the way this ended, that’s true, but of all the insulting things…”

He shoved Mycroft into the desk and paced like a creature trapped in a cage. Mycroft rubbed his hand over his sternum, like Greg had done any real damage, and stared as if he wasn’t sure what he was dealing with. It felt good knowing he had the man on edge. It felt really good.

“My apologies, then, Inspector. I’ll have the offer rescinded immediately.”

That bland, I’ve-got-better-things-to-do tone was back, despite his wary posture, and Greg saw red. He stopped pacing, turned fully towards Mycroft with the intent of intimidation. It didn’t seem to work but he knew he had a lot more in his arsenal than his glare. He casually stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and made a show of studying Mycroft’s face.

“You know, I’m not sure which part was the act,” he mused aloud.

Mycroft’s brow came down. “I beg your pardon.”

“You’re one ice-cold son of a bitch either way. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know that going in, it’s just, I rather thought you were at least a little bit decent. But no, not even a little bit. Because either way you either faked ever enjoying my company at all and this is the real you, this,” he sneered, unable to come up with an adjective that encompassed the severity of his coldness, “or you really did enjoy our time together, you’re just a bloody coward who’d rather be alone for the rest of his life than continue risking _feelings_.”

“Name calling, Inspector? I expected better from you.”

“I don’t know why,” he held his hands out, still tucked into his coat, “youngest of three from boring old Dagenham, from a long line of cowards I am, remember? Lower middle class family, wouldn’t know the look of a public school if I drunkenly stumbled into one. Can’t even solve my own cases without your brother’s help; get people killed when I try. Why would you ever expect better from me?”

Mycroft stared at him in just the barest form of shock, like he didn’t understand where the turn in the conversation had happened. Then suddenly his face smoothed again and his standard look of mild disdain returned.

“The only thing beneath you, Inspector, is your blatant attempt at fishing. If you’re quite finished.”

He made to move past Greg, probably to see him out.

“I wasn’t fishing.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I was distracting.” With lightening precision, drawing on twenty years of practice, he snapped the metal handcuff onto Mycroft’s wrist with a click. 

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence between them. Mycroft stared down at his wrist with perfectly timed blinks for each of the thirteen seconds it took him to process what he was seeing. When he finally looked up it was with a blank confusion.

“What are you doing?” He tried his best to imbue his voice with authority but to Greg’s everlasting delight it still shook with fear. _Yes,_ his inner-most demons hissed, _he deserves this. Let him wonder what you’ll do._

But what was he going to do? He hadn’t exactly thought that far in advance. _Push him a bit farther, see if you can get the great Mycroft Holmes to break._

Again, without warning, he twisted Mycroft’s arm in his grasp and forced him around and back toward his enormous desk. Greg was actually quite surprised that it had worked. If he’d been in his right mind at all he would have realized sooner that Mycroft was trained on how to get out of these very situations, easily, and why wasn’t he? It wasn’t until he pushed the man face down and snapped the second cuff onto his up stretched hand, that he realized his mistake.

“Oh, god,” Mycroft groaned.

Not fear then. No. Not fear.

It was Greg’s turn to silently stare in confusion. He never would have guessed-not in a million years-that this is what it took to subdue the great and powerful Holmes. That he’d allow himself into this position… _Jesus Christ he looks good bent over that desk._ He was panting already for crying out loud.

“I don’t believe it,” Greg whispered as he ran his hand reverently down Mycroft’s side.

“Let me up,” Mycroft commanded breathlessly and made a token attempt at lifting himself. The barest amount of force and he was back down on the surface of the polished mahogany. Greg kept his hand planted between Mycroft’s shoulder blades and continued to stroke the other up and down his left side, from rib cage to thigh.

“I wasn’t even sure where I was going with this. Think I probably would have just cuffed you and left you to your own devices. Hardly a bit of revenge there at all, is there?”

“If you’re thinking of taking advantage, Inspector-” he tried so valiantly to threaten.

“What if I am?” Greg grabbed hold of the short chain holding the cuffs together and pulled back on it. “What are you going to do about it? Huh?” He leaned down, careful not to brush his erection against the man just yet. “You’re not going anywhere, Mycroft. I’ve got you right where I want you.” He was going on instinct really but as it turned out he hit the nail on the head first try. Mycroft’s fingers flexed as he clawed helplessly at the air and his hips twitched just the barest bit against the desk. Greg’s grin would have frightened anyone who saw it. Luckily it was just them.

“So,” Greg drawled, “this is what you want. I can accommodate that.”

“No,” he breathed softly.

Greg stopped petting him. ‘No’ was problematic. As a policeman, not to mention just a decent human being in general, he couldn’t continue if Mycroft was serious. The problem was figuring out if he was or not; because his body was sure as hell saying yes. For the sake of answering quickly, he reached down without warning and ran his palm up Mycroft’s inner thigh.

“No?” Greg questioned when he found the man hard as marble in his trousers.

He gasped and banged his head against the desk as Greg gripped him tightly, but there was no verbal response.

“Tell me to stop, My. Tell me you aren’t dripping in your expensive spandex trousers. Tell me you don’t want me to hold you down and take this,” he growled. Lord knew where this was coming from but, dammit, he couldn’t seem to stop now. Mycroft was panting, rutting against Greg’s hand, and it was just too much, not nearly enough.

Greg let go just long enough to shrug his coat onto the floor and then brought his right hand back around, his left to his zip. It took some doing but he managed to pull his cock free. It fell to rest against Mycroft’s arse and he casually brushed it against him with teasing strokes. At this point Mycroft wasn’t even trying not to push back against him.

“Christ, if you’d only asked,” Greg muttered. He supposed that was half the point, though, wasn’t it? Mycroft didn’t want to have to be asked. He wanted it taken.

Greg slowly pulled the tight workout trousers down over the swell of his magnificent arse and caressed his way back up. He wanted to draw it out but he didn’t know how long they had. Minutes possibly. He spit into his palm, which caused Mycroft to groan again, and used the impromptu lubricant to slick around his cock. Another bit he used to toy at the edges of his opening. Mycroft whimpered, a noise Greg didn’t know he’d ever heard from the man. When he pushed his finger slowly inside it was to the sound of loud gulping intakes of breath. He hoped he wasn’t hurting the man but at the rate this was going it probably wouldn’t have mattered a wit.

Greg was never more thankful to be average sized and bullet shaped in his life, because neither of them seemed to be able to wait long. By the time he had worked two fingers in Mycroft was begging.

“Just do it, please. For the love of god.”

“You’re sure?” He cautiously asked, stepping out of the new character that he’d built, but he had to be sure.

“Yes,” Mycroft hissed back.

Greg spit once more for an added bit of slick and then went about working himself in. And work it was, but very much worth it if their mutual groans were anything to go on. Mycroft held deathly still as Greg pushed further and further inside, slow but determined.

He mumbled encouragements all the while. “You’re so hot, My. So good. Fuck.” 

By the time they were flush it felt like hours had passed but they were both so in tuned to the other it only took a slight twitch of Mycroft’s hips to let Greg know he was ready for more. He pulled back slowly and they both let out a soft moan, nearly identical in cadence.

It had been so long, Greg had nearly forgotten how much he loved this. How universally different this was than being with a woman. He’d thought he was perfectly satisfied with their sex life, and he was, as evident by the fact that he hadn’t even thought to ask for this, but now… he didn’t know if he could go back to just receiving. This was too good. By the time Mycroft started rocking back Greg was praying he’d last just another minute. And then another more.

_Make it last. Make it good. So good he’ll never force you out again._

He made the mistake of looking down at where they connected, the way he disappeared into Mycroft, and had to immediately screw his eyes shut again. He would never make it. He made an internal promise that he’d do better next time and then reached back underneath for Mycroft’s cock.

There was a hiss and then a frantic jerk of his hips and Mycroft cried out. “Yes,” he hissed as he jerked into Greg’s fist. Seemed he’d been just as close.

Greg worked him gently until he was completely spent and then used both hands to grab Mycroft by the hips. He drove into him, hard, over and over. It was possible he lasted another thirty seconds but he had no way of knowing really. His head landed with a thud against Mycroft’s back as he finished filling him up.

Christ, clean up was going to be horrific. He thought Mycroft kept a few extra handkerchiefs in his desk but he couldn’t remember. He was generally half checked out by the time they finished. He pulled out as gently as he could and did his best to be gentlemanly as Mycroft shifted uncomfortably with the aftermath.

“Just stay still, I’ll see to that,” Greg muttered. To his surprise, as he was busy doing up his trousers and making for the other side of his desk, Mycroft had already gotten the handcuffs off, chucked them onto the desk between them, and then began to pull up his own trousers.

Greg stared. “Did you just dislocate your thumbs?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Inspector,” he stated coldly.

Greg looked up in shock. Mycroft wouldn’t make eye contact with him. “Jesus, My… I thought you wanted-“

“Please,” he scoffed. “That was perfectly pleasurable but it doesn’t negate the fact that I still asked you to forgo our liaison hours ago.” 

Greg did his best to reconcile this turn of events. He was as bad as a damn teenager after their first breakup, equating sex with love, thinking this would somehow mend the rift he’d already caused. That Mycroft letting him do… what they’d done would change his mind. Luckily, he went from self-loathing to anger again in seconds.

“You just can’t admit you feel something for me, you bloody coward,” he snapped. “You’re going to dismiss me with my come running down your legs like I’m some two bit hooker but I know the truth, Mycroft Holmes. I’ve felt it. I’ve got every conversation we’ve had saved on my bloody phone. I _know_ you felt the same.”

“If you think that was me every time you are sorely mistaken. Andrea is useful that way.”

Greg stared, unable to speak. He tried not to picture Arabella’s thumbs tapping away on her Blackberry and failed. He was fairly sure he was going to be ill. “You’re lying,” he breathed but he was already convinced it was true.

Mycroft gave a long suffering sigh. “Let me put this into terms you can better understand.” He walked forward so they were facing each other without the desk between them. “I can no longer afford to put off my duties. I need to settle down with someone more reasonable, someone that can fulfill certain expectations.”

“Speak plain.” Everything was cold all of a sudden, which was probably preferable to throwing up.

“A woman, Gregory. I have enjoyed our time together but there are things I need that you simply cannot give me. It would be cruel to continue leading you on when I know in the long run this will end. Do you understand now?”

“How long have you known this was what you wanted?” Greg asked with no inflection.

“A long time but it hadn’t come to my attention until recently that I needed to stop putting it off. There’s a woman who works in the Head Office who’s shown promise. It’s time to settle down,” Mycroft finished with a shrug. As if this were perfectly acceptable.

He couldn’t argue with that. There was nothing left to say; no recourse left to him. He simply nodded and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the hardest to write. Not only because I basically end their relationship without showing any of it to you guys, with the exception of the texts, but also because Mycroft had to be such an unforgivable prick to get Greg to walk away. Ugh. Murder me.


	5. Grievous Bodily Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dust settles, Greg is taking one day at a time and finding that he can move on. Until a certain Male Prostitute decides to shake things up a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back Cal. :) John finally makes an appearance too.

_ Four months later _

Donovan glanced over at him and rolled her eyes. He tried not to grin but it was futile. Not with the consulting detective and his blogger/doctor/flatmate in the backseat whispering like two teenagers on a date with one's parents in the front seat. They were hardly being subtle.

“Stop it,” John hissed and the distinct sound of a slap could be heard.

Sally sighed long and loud. “I need a raise.”

Greg wondered, not for the first time, what Mycroft thought of the latest development between Sherlock and John. He had to know obviously, everyone with eyes could see it, but he’d never get to ask, to celebrate with Sherlock’s brother over it. More’s the pity. It would have been nice to commiserate the final, inevitable, clashing of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson with someone who had long awaited it as well. Greg sighed to himself.  

Sherlock piped up from the backseat, “Tell me, Inspector, how much longer is this going to take?”

Sally groaned and scrapped her nails down the dashboard. “Fucking hell, that didn’t take long. Never again. We are never bringing them on a stake-out ever again.”

Greg looked down at his watch dramatically and said, “The suspect said he’d meet us around nine.”

“Sarcasm, Inspector?” Sherlock drawled.

“You were the one asking stupid questions,” he replied. God help them, they’d only been waiting for an hour and Sherlock had complained for the last forty minutes of it. The last ten he’d apparently been trying to talk John into some form of intercourse, judging by John’s whispered complaints and the red tint of his face.

“Don’t let him fool you, Greg, he’s only complaining to be a tit. I’ve seen him sit quietly at a stake-out for hours on end before,” John told on his partner.

“John,” said partner whinged at the treachery.

Greg chuckled. These two idiots, he loved them to death. Sally, on the other hand, looked ready to spit. It was all told not a bad night so far. As long as they could resolve Mrs. Harrison’s little blackmail/kidnapping issue without somebody getting killed, that was. The case was a relatively simple one, or at least it looked to be so on the outside. Mrs. Harrison had brought the issue to the attention of Sherlock Holmes to avoid involving the police, at the request of her blackmailer, but when Greg had caught Sherlock hacking into his computer at NSY, he’d demanded an explanation. After a long argument they both decided to help the other and thus found themselves camped outside Mrs. Harrison’s home in Mayfair. To Greg’s dismay, they were parked across the street from Mycroft’s garage door and he couldn’t help glancing at it every few minutes, making it harder than usual not to think of the man. His stomach practically rolled with the remembrance of better times.

Greg snapped out of his pathetic musing when Sally slapped at his arm and pointed out the windscreen.

“You think?” She asked quietly, as if fearing they might be overheard by the shadowy figure approaching.

“Could be,” he answered. “Sherlock?”

“Hard to say,” he responded, his head leaned forward between the seats as he watched. “Well, that ups the odds considerably.”

They watched as the figure looked both ways and slowly, too casual not to be obvious, made his way up the drive.

“Let’s go,” Greg snapped.

They spilled from the car and jogged up the pavement, avoiding the glow of the streetlights where they could. Sherlock was apparently the last to exit the car. The blackmailer turned at the sound of the car door closing, loudly he might add, and made like he was going to make a break for it.

Greg let out a sigh and the called out, “Scotland yard! Stop where you are.”

The blackmailer made a split second decision and chose to pull a gun on them. Everyone slammed to a stop. The newly-minted gunman started yelling at them to get back in the car, but Greg was distracted by John, who’d moved his hand to the small of his back. Greg grunted to get his attention, nodding at Donovan when he looked over. Greg wouldn’t be able to stop Sally from sighting John for his illegal weapons possession if he pulled it in front of her. He gave Greg a look. _‘Only if this doesn’t escalate, then all bets are off.’_

“Put the gun down,” Donovan called back. “You’re outnumbered.”

“But I’m the only one holding a gun,” he replied and Greg could swear John was foaming at the mouth. Sherlock was too busy sneaking forward to notice John’s itchy trigger finger. Not that he’d do anything about it if he did notice. He gave John a nod towards Sherlock. _‘Watch him.’_

Greg took a few tentative steps forward but stopped when Mrs. Harrison stepped out her front door.

“Get back inside,” he yelled out. She jumped and then yelped when she saw the blackmailer, gun in hand.

“Stay where you are!” He yelled back at her.

She was a smart woman. She dove back inside and locked the door.

A lot happened in the next few seconds. The blackmailer made for the door first, which in turn caused John to pull his gun. Greg was seconds away from tackling him when he noted a black limo pulling out of Mycroft’s garage. He would have done his best to ignore it if it weren’t for the fact that it stopped in the middle of the street. The door opened as John was moving forward toward the blackmailer, gun out and steadily pointed at his head. Donovan called out for him to put the gun down, the blackmailer called for them all to stop and then another voice called out, “John? Everything all right?”

They all turned and watched some random kid approach from the street.

“Cal? What the hell are you doing here?” John asked, gun still up pointed toward the house.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” The blackmailer yelled.

“Cal, get down!” John yelled.

But it was too late. The blackmailer’s gun came up and John dove to the side. A black blur sped passed in front of them both and then a crack of gunfire. Everything slowed down to tiny increments as they all realized Sherlock had been hit. He wasn’t exactly quiet about letting them know.

“Sodding _fuck_ that hurt! You bastard! How could you?” He wailed, writhing on the lawn. 

John looked down in horror and then without missing a beat aimed and took out the gunman. He went down with a cry, hit in the range of his shoulder if Greg wasn’t mistaken. Donovan rushed to cuff him and Greg pulled his radio and called for two ambulances as he rushed forward to see to Sherlock.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t mean for-“ Greg tried to apologize.

“It’s fine. It looks like a graze.” John prodded at Sherlock’s wound. It was bleeding pretty profusely though. Greg pulled his scarf from his neck and handed it to John to stop the bleeding, as Sherlock wasn’t wearing his.

 _What a cock up._ _Why’d it have to be Sherlock? Why couldn’t he have hit that fucking kid?_ Oh, he was a bastard. His thoughts alone should earn him a ticket straight to hell if nothing else.

“Ta,” John said absently used the scarf to stop the bleeding. Sherlock continued to swear him to perdition. John frowned but continued to check the wound until the ambulance arrived. Sherlock did his best to push John away, whinging incoherently all the while as they loaded him in the bus.

It wasn’t until he turned to check on the assailant that he saw Mycroft standing on the pavement. Greg’s stomach gave an unpleasant jerk and he had to take a few steadying steps to orient himself. It had been months, forever, since he’d laid eyes on the man. Not a word between them the whole time, and while logically he knew they wouldn’t be able to keep it up, not with Sherlock between them, it still felt like being shoved off the side of a cliff to see him now. Greg tried to look him over with an unbiased eye but he just couldn’t; his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of him. He looked good, but then again, didn’t he always. It had only been four months, what did he expect?

Greg did his best to shake off the nostalgia and process the scene as a detective. One would assume he’d be there to check on his wounded brother but Mycroft hadn’t approached the ambulance to check on Sherlock. In fact, what he was doing was arguing with the kid who’d set the whole thing off. The longer he watched, the longer it became apparent these two knew each other. Greg felt a swift drop when he finally put two and two together. The car had left Mycrofts’s garage. Out spills this posh, quite beautiful younger man, and now Mycoft was looming intimidatingly over him in a clear attempt to get him to leave. Sooner rather than later, going by the flush of his face and the scowl. Greg stormed forward without thought.

“Mycroft,” he growled. “What are you doing at my crime scene?”

He didn’t looked surprised by the interruption, annoyed more like. “Inspector,” he intoned without looking.

“If you’re worried about Sherlock, he’s fine. You can go.”

“I am well aware.”

“Then go,” he snapped.

Mycroft ignored him in favour of glaring down at the new-comer. He held his hands up in defeat and started to back up toward the limo.

“I don’t think so,” Greg called out. “You’re now part of a criminal investigation. Stay put.” He turned to Mycroft. “And you, you can go home.”

Mycroft smiled, a sneer really, gave the kid a ‘ _keep your mouth shut’_ look, and then inclined his head to Greg. He nodded to his driver, who’d looked on from the sidelines. They made for the garage and Greg waited until the car and its owner were back inside before he turned back towards the kid.

“Go see Sergeant Donovan,” he commanded with a nod toward Sally. He didn’t trust himself to question the kid under the circumstances.  His fists clenched in barely concealed rage as he complied. Greg didn’t let out the breath he was holding until the bloke was well away.

“Greg,” John called out. Greg turned toward the ambulance to see John’s head popped out from around the back. He didn’t even question how he’d been allowed in the thing. Dr. Watson could be very persuasive when he wanted. “We’re off. Heading to Princess Grace. I’ll call you.”

He raised a hand in understanding and watched them pull away. The siren blared and Greg rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The second ambulance was just loading the gunman and Mrs. Harrison was fitfully wringing her hands in the front doorway. It was going to be a long night.

“You know what?” He muttered to himself. “Sod this,” and then louder called out, “Donovan!”

She jogged over. “Yeah?”

“Help me wrap this up fast. I want to go home.”

“But, sir-“

“Just… just leave it for tomorrow. Please,” he added at a whisper. _Please don’t fight me on this._

She looked him in the eye and nodded. “I’ll get the kid's information, you go reassure Mrs. Harrison.”

He agreed. The sooner he got home the better.

                                                      ~*~

Two hours later, just as Greg was sitting down to watch the telly, a futile attempt at forgetting the entire night had happened, a knock came at his door.

“Oh, for fuck sake,” he grumbled as he hefted himself off the sofa.

“Greg, it’s me,” a muffled voice called from beyond the door.

He pulled the door open to reveal John on the other side, bag in hand and trying to be subtle about wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

"Christ, what happened?" He pulled John inside and took his bag from his hand.

"I, uh, it's temporary, but, uh," his voice broke a bit, "can I stay here?" He wouldn't look Greg in the eye.

"Of course, mate, of course. But what brought this on? Are you all right? Is Sherlock-"

"No, he's fine. The doctor said the bullet missed his hip bone by four centimeters but it was through and through, didn't hit any organs, thank god. He's still in hospital until tomorrow."

"So, why...um," he awkwardly shifted, not sure exactly what John was doing here. "Didn't they take him to Princess Grace?"

"Yeah, they did. He's gone mad, of course." He sat heavily on the arm of Greg's sofa and Greg moved to sit adjacent in the chair.

"Why aren't you there?" He came right out and asked.

John looked up in guilt, fists clenching and unclenching, and then away again. "He asked me to leave. Kicked me out of the room really." He noted Greg's confused mien and his hand twitched again in his lap. "I suppose I should explain." He gave a tight smile that disappeared as rapidly as it’d appeared.

"I mean, it's your prerogative." Greg sat back against the chair and tried to affect a nonchalant attitude, when really he was breathless with anticipation. John was finally going to admit to it.

"You recall the violin issue?" He began hesitantly.

Greg hummed to say 'Of course', eyebrows raised comically high as he tried not to laugh in the face of the man who was clearly finding this difficult.

John pursed his lips, licked them, and then pursed them again. "It's, uh, sort of escalated. To... um, I guess you could say..."

"You two have been shagging like rabbits for the last three months?"

John visibly sank. "Yes." He looked away and Greg did the same when John's face fell. "It's been obvious, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, a bit." Greg wanted to tell John that everyone in their lives had been waiting on this moment since day one but he didn't think John would appreciate that. Greg hadn’t seen Mrs. Hudson in a while but he wondered if she knew yet. What was he thinking? Of course she did. She lived right down stairs from it. He'd have to remember to call her and scold her for not letting him in on the ‘news’.

"Christ." John shifted off the arm of the sofa until his arse hit the cushion. "Of course it was. Of course."

"Tell me why you're here, mate. I'm guessing if things were all hearts and roses you wouldn't be crashing on my sofa."

“Yeah.” He nodded and fisted the cushion in his grip. “I guess I partially blame you for what happened."

He reared back. "Me?"

"You were the one that talked me into going to that bloody cat house to begin with."

“What-,” Greg looked away and back in confusion, “what the hell has that got to do with it?"

"Calvin. The bloke from the shooting, the one who got out of the car and fucked everything up," he explained at Greg's blank look. "He's who I saw that day. The day I took your stupid sodding advice."

Greg felt his face fall into a countenance of shock- mouth open, eyes comically wide. He had guessed about Sherlock, but had assumed John was just, how did Sally put it? Sherlocksexual?

 _"Really?"_ He coughed to cover the squeak in his voice.

John chuckled without humour. "Didn't see that coming, did you?" Greg shook his head. "Yeah, well, neither did Sherlock apparently. _Et voila_." He held his hands out to showcase his location.

"All right. He didn't take kindly to it, obviously. But it was before you started..." He eyeballed John in an obvious manner, to which John nodded. "So why was he upset? Didn't you explain he was a fluke or whatever? I mean it not like you've..." He trailed off when John side looked him in embarrassment. "God, really? Calvin wasn't the first?"

"First prostitute, thank you very much," he snapped. "But first bloke? No. Eighth, ninth maybe."

Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How had he never noticed? Of course, he had _noticed_ John, but not in a reciprocal 'He would totally be down for that' kind of way. And even if he had, it was clear from day one John only had eyes for Sherlock. He remembered then the conversation with Mycroft at Milly’s, how he thought John would fall into a relationship with Sherlock easily. Guess he’d pegged John right from the start. Of course he had. Mycroft was never wrong. He suppressed the snort that threatened to come out.

"So he's mad about the prostitute,” Greg continued. “He'll get over it. It's Sherlock, he'll be more glad to see you pick him up from hospital than anything else."

John took a deep breath. "No. It's worse than that. He thought... He thought it was just him, you know? His whole idea of our relationship was banked on the idea that I was so in love with him, that his gender didn't matter."

Greg snorted. "He would."

"Yeah, but when he found put that wasn't exactly the case, he panicked. Just lost it. I mean, Christ, he had an eight millimetre hole through his side but he was more worried about throwing bed pans and pillows at me to notice it."

"He’s so dramatic," Greg commented with an eye roll.

"Yeah," John sighed fondly. Greg stamped down the need to roll his eyes again.

"Okay, so he's upset that you're bi and not just so wildly in love with him that you've forever forsaken the fairer sex? If you ask me, you should be the one who's angry. He’s mental if he thinks that should matter."

"No, it's not that exactly. He's got really bad self-esteem, Greg, you have to know that."

He scrunched his face up in disbelief. "Sherlock?"

"Yes!” John practically shouted. This was a sore topic apparently. “Do you never stop to think about what it's done to him, to hear people refer to him as a freak? Did you never wonder why he was doing copious amounts of cocaine and heroin to begin with?"

Guilt sat heavy in his system at that. Of course he remembered the drugs, the tail end of it anyway. He remembered clear as day, that look he'd gotten right at the end, when PC Mercer had started to drag Sherlock off the premises, he'd looked at Greg, implored him to believe what he said was true, and the heart-wrenching defeat when he realized no one cared about what a lunatic kid had to say. He'd seen the rough, ill-mannered exterior for what it was, a shell, but it had been so long since Greg had seen his gentler side, he'd gotten used to the self-assured, arsehole genius.

"Yeah, I do. I do know it. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten he was human after all," he admitted with a sad smile.

"He doesn't make it easy, I'll give you that. But it's there, just below the surface. He accused me of lying to him." John looked up at Greg, his eyes going wet. "He said I'd lied from the beginning but I never did. I might have denied being gay but I never said I was _straight_. And he never asked! Never once asked if he was my first. I just assumed he could tell, you know? I'm not exactly shit at giving head, you'd think he would have noticed!"

Greg coughed to cover his surprise at John's outburst. That was a loaded bit of information, and Greg did his damnedest to keep the thoughts in his head off his face.

"Sorry," John quickly said with a grimace. "That was too much information."

"No," he croaked. "It's fine. Not like it was a secret at this point."

"Yeah but it's not like you want to hear about it either. I get it, it makes some people uncomfortable. It's fine, not like I'm going to rant at you or anything."

Greg would be damned if he let John think that was the problem. "No," he drawled. "That's actually the exact opposite of the issue." He smiled self-deprecatingly.

He watched as the light bulb blinked on above John's head. Lord, he was so expressive, no wonder Sherlock loved him. He watched the play of surprise, then 'Really? How did I miss that?’ followed by a tiny smile that probably indicated flattery but quickly morphed into suspicion.

"What?" Greg questioned at John's glare.

"If you've been entertaining notions that Sherlock-"

"Christ no!" He sat up fully in shock. "I've known him for almost ten years, I'm not stupid. No, god, no. You're the only one who's even remotely interested in that, mate."

"That's a bloody lie. Have you looked at him?"

" _After_ he's opened his mouth then," he clarified.

John tilted his head in acquiescence. He gave a fond smile. "That's true then, isn't it? So why...?"

"You don't think very highly of yourself, mate." He laughed to cover the awkward moment. "Let's just leave it at that."

John tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch and stared at Greg in contemplation.

"What?" He asked, wary that he'd started an ill-advised line of conversation.

"Nothing like _that_ ," he answered with a huff. "It's just... Back in March, Sherlock said you were dating somebody, but you wouldn't own up to it. He accused you of sleeping with a coworker because you felt the need to lie about it. Was he right or was it because it was a bloke?"

Greg swallowed past the lump in his throat and had to look away, lest he feel compelled to spill his guts to John. He was already feeling vulnerable tonight as it was, no need to drag it out further.

"I'm sorry, Greg. It's none of my business. Really, forget I said anything."

He looked back at John with a wan smile. John was a good friend, he deserved a bit of explanation at the very least. "I had a brief liaison that ended badly. That's all I'll say about that." If John knew the truth he'd likely throw himself bodily from the window.

He looked like he wanted to ask more but he was too polite for that; the antithesis of Sherlock in that respect. "All right." He nodded slowly to say he understood and would shut up.

"So, back to your current situation,” Greg diverted. “Will he get over it soon, d’you think?"

John took a breath and leant back against the sofa. For a moment Greg flashed back to that morning all those months ago, when he'd woken with Mycroft in his lap. He’d been so confused but clearly interested even then. If only he’d ignored it… He had to blink several times before he was sure the moisture in his eyes was gone.

"I hope so,” John answered, snapping Greg back to the conversation. “I'm not going to lie, you'd know I was, I'm arse over tits in love with him. Have been for a long time, just never owned up to it. If he continues to stay mad at me, feel like I _don't love him like he thought_ ," he clearly repeated back Sherlock's words, "it'll be the death of me."

"He's going to forgive you, John. If you think you're not just as important to him you're mental. He's been in love with you too since day one."

"Oh, he has not," he denied.

Greg smiled. "Okay."

"He hasn't," John repeated strongly.

Greg continued to smile at him. He was happy for them, despite this little blip, and it was good to see he'd been right from the beginning. They really were perfect for each other.

John sighed and leant his head back against the sofa again. "I just wish it were simple."

Greg snorted at that. "No, you don't."

He smiled up at the ceiling. "Right. Well, I wish we weren't constantly putting each other in danger. It's my fault he got shot. If I hadn’t yelled out for Calvin to get down that bastard wouldn't have pointed his gun at me, Sherlock wouldn't have been hit... Ugh." He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Greg remembered quietly wishing Calvin had been hit instead, if only because he had clearly just left Mycroft's house. What a blow to the sternum that had been. Now that he had time to think, his blood boiled just a little bit more to find out the kid was a damn rent boy. Mycroft couldn't even shag a regular bloke, he was resorting to prostitutes. He wondered what the mystery woman from Head Office would think if she knew.

"John," Greg unwittingly snapped in his anger, "listen. You and Sherlock are always going to be putting yourselves in stupid situations. Believe me, I won't be surprised to get a call when we're eighty year olds saying one or both of you have escaped the home to take a case. They'll find both of you hobbling down the street with your walkers, chasing after pickpockets." John laughed at that. "If you think any of that is going to change just because you're openly in love with each other, well, I've got news... It won't. It's who you guys are, mate. Best deal with it now and get the doubt out of the way."

"But the worry. It's so stressful. Do you know how often I come home from the clinic to find him gone on some case, without telling me? It's nerve-wracking."

"So you guys are going to have to work some things out? So what? That's called a relationship. When you're in one, compromises happen. If he loves you he'll take that into account next time he gets a case and wants to run off."

"I guess," he huffed. "In any case he said Mycroft would pick him up tomorrow. He didn't want to see me. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."

"Call Mycroft, tell him you'll take care of it. He'll understand."

"Mycroft, understanding." John snorted. "Right."

He thought about telling John that Mycoft had them pegged from day one and had openly admitted to pushing them together on more than one occasion to Greg, but he didn't want to admit to how he knew the information. He clicked his mouth shut and looked down at his nails.

"That was weird," John mused after a quiet moment.

"What?" He asked.

"Calvin being there when he was, coming from Mrs. Harrison's garage. I assumed he was gay but I guess not. And what the hell was she doing with him during the investigation? Or maybe her son...? I dunno. You're the detective. You figure it out."

"He didn't come from Mrs. Harrison's. That's not her garage," he blurted without thinking.

"It's not? But it's in front of her house."

"All the houses on that block have underground garages."

"Really? How do you know?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "She told me so, at the crime scene."

"Huh. Okay. So where did he come from? Uh oh... Scandal in Mayfair." John burst out laughing and Greg joined in, albeit in a strained, fake-as-hell sort of way. John's laugh trailed off and Greg almost swallowed his tongue when he looked up at him in horror. This was it, he'd put two and two together. "Fuck me, no!"

"What?" He choked the word out.

"You don't think... Mycroft lives on the other side... Could he have been? God no!" He scrubbed at his eyes. "They did, oh god, that's why he showed up and acted so weird with Cal. Jesus Christ."

"I don't think-"

"It makes perfect sense. Christ, I even remember the car now. The black limo, you remember it! He's kidnapped you in it a thousand times, I'm sure." He looked up at Greg in pity. "Oh my god, you're going to have to interview Cal for the case. You poor thing, he's probably going to have to tell you all about it."

Greg was two seconds away from getting offended on Mycroft's behalf but then what John said penetrated his brain _. I'll get to interview Calvin for the case._ He could get all sorts of juicy gossip from the kid. He tried to affect a put-upon, semi-disgusted look, but in reality he was practically giddy with anticipation.

"This is unbelievable." John shivered in disgust and Greg snapped back into anger again.

"I'm surprised you find it this disgusting, considering," he gave John a significant look.

John looked back at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Okay, barring the fact that I've just discovered Mycroft Holmes and I have shared the same sexual partner," pause for gagging noise, "finding out he has fully functioning genitalia... that he uses to participate in sexual congress... with anyone! How are you not just as horrified?"

 _Play it cool, Greg, don't let him see that you were just thinking about My's fully functioning- fucking gorgeous!- genitalia_   _..._

"It's just not that shocking,” Greg answered, cool as a cucumber. “I mean, he was married before."

John blinked at him. "He what?"

"Married. To a woman. Long time ago, he never told you? Sherlock never mentioned it?"

"No." He looked around. "Christ, no. Did you ever meet her?"

"No, she died before I even knew them. I hear she was a politician."

John scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Wow. I always wondered about that ring, I just assumed if that were the case one of them would have mentioned it. And honestly I just couldn't picture it. How did she die, do you know?"

"No clue. Never asked." He'd learned his lesson early on, you could say. He was thanking his lucky stars John hadn't put any more thought into Greg’s knowledge.

"This is just too much."

Greg was suddenly cognizant of the fact that John wouldn’t be half as shocked by this new bit of information if Mycroft was dating a woman from Head Office. He could keep a secret like nobodies business, but from Sherlock?

 _Shut your damn mouth, Greg. Don't you fucking do it_.

"So he's not seeing anyone now?"

_God damn it, you idiot._

John looked over in shock. "You mean other than Calvin?" He snorted. "No. Hell no. Not as far as I know. He'd never get something like that past Sherlock anyway,” he admitted, proving Greg’s thought, “and he was just over the other day so he had plenty of time to deduce it. In fact he comes over a lot more than he used to. At first I thought it was because Sherlock and I... you know... but when Sherlock confronted him about it, he'd just congratulated us and left, like it was no big deal. I didn't even get the expected 'Break his heart and I'll break your legs' speech."

Greg felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. _Mycroft, you lying sack of..._

They both turned when something pinged off Greg's sitting room window, followed by a grunt and an intelligible bellow, and then another ping. They turned to look at each other in confusion.

"There a zombie outside your flat, Greg?"

"Sounds like it. I'll tell you what, I am not ready to fight off an invading zombie horde."

"Too right, I'm dead tired..." John waited a beat before smiling.

"Was that a zombie joke?"

"Yeah." He snickered and Greg had to smile just a bit.

That was until a now semi-coherent, familiar voice called out, _"John,"_ at the top of his lungs and a fistful of rocks slammed into Greg's window.

Recipient of said shout bolted to the window and threw it open, letting in a blast of cold air. "Jesus Christ!" He shouted back. "Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing!"

"Tell Lestrade I won't stand for this injustice!" He yelled up, his words slurring a bit.

"What?" Greg wondered aloud.

"Yeah, what you on about?" John yelled.

"His flat is not wheelchair accessible and it is a law! Or at least it should be!"

"The fuck..." Greg got up and walked to the window to see Sherlock, still in his hospital gown, sitting on the pavement in what was clearly stolen hospital property. "You nut!" He called down. "Did you wheel here from Princess Grace?"

Sherlock gave a petulant scowl. "Yes!" 

"Christ, Sherlock," John yelled and slammed his hand down on the window sill, "you were shot tonight. It's twenty minutes here in a cab. Are you high!" 

"Yes!" He answered. "Morphine. It's fantastic! I simply must find more!"

"I told them," John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I said not to give him morphine. As soon as I turn my bloody back. _Christ._ "

“They were probably trying to shut him up,” Greg mused as he watched Sherlock attempt a wheelie.

“ _John!_ ” The man bellowed.

John turned to Greg with a familiar resigned look. “And you see how well that worked out.”

"Come down here! I don't want Lestrade hearing the sexually explicit things I want to say to you."

Greg whipped his head to John. They stared at each other in horror. "Go," Greg commanded. "For the love of god, just go. I'll call you a cab."

John chuckled, squeezed his shoulder and then ran for the door. Greg was only slightly ashamed to say, as he dialed for the cab, he watched at the window as John and Sherlock made up. It was rather sweet. Sherlock was obviously apologizing; he grabbed John by the hand and rubbed his face on it like a damn cat. John crouched down, which put him near eye level with Sherlock sitting in the chair. He was clearly explaining to Sherlock what he had explained to Greg, which Sherlock nodded along to happily. Greg only walked away when John took Sherlock by the face and kissed him, repeatedly and with lots of tongue. He might have watched for a bit longer than was necessary but neither one was the wiser, and he _did_ eventually walk away. Part of him was glad Sherlock had come to his senses but another tiny, ungrateful part of him was jealous. Everyone wanted what John and Sherlock had; even when they had just been friends, people were jealous. It was clear they were both the most important people in each other’s lives; that they'd do anything for each other. Greg had been married for fourteen years and he'd never had that.

As an after-thought, he grabbed John's bag and left it next to the front door.

Once settled in bed he tried and failed miserably not to think of things he’d thought he was supposedly over. Of Mycroft, the painful discovery of his lies, what he was doing with Calvin... and not Greg... and, pathetically, what he had or hadn't done to deserve being so easily dismissed.

 

                                                                                                             ~*~

 

The next day Greg stood in the observation room with Donovan, trying so very hard not to side glance at Mr. Calvin Hartford, who sat quietly in the interrogation room, as she went over the man’s statement.

“Says he was visiting a friend and it was a coincidence. He’s lying about something but as far as I can tell it’s not related to the case. He hasn’t got any obvious ties to our blackmailer and his background check came back clean. Just a few minor scrapes about ten years back.”

Greg silently wondered how he’d managed to keep his metaphorical nose clean considering his profession but then he remembered who Mr. Hartford worked for and who his ‘associates’ were. That operation was run tighter than a duck's arsehole.

He quickly skimmed over the report Donovan had typed up that morning. Apparently the blackmailer, a Mr. Stephan Borsh, had come clean late last night. Seemed Mr. Harrison was behind his own kidnapping. He’d planned on faking his death and skipping town with two million of his own money. Mrs. Harrison, with good reason, was very put out. When he got to the part where apparently Sally herself had shot the blackmailer, with Mr. Harrison’s unregistered Browning- that Mrs. Harrison had supposedly dropped upon the front lawn when confronted by the blackmailer- he looked up in surprise.

Sally leaned casually smug against the wall, her arms crossed and her eyebrow high.

Greg knew he shouldn't feel like a proud Papa in that moment but damn if he didn't. Hell, she was falsifying evidence, for crying out loud. They could both get fired, but still, she was learning morally right versus legally right. It made his job working with Sherlock a lot easier. 

“And you’re all right with this?” Greg asked. 

“No, not really,” she admitted. “But I know better than to try to make a charge stick to John Watson. I could find him starkers in Trafalgar Square with a kilo of cocaine on his head and he’d walk.”

“That’s an image.” Greg closed the folder. “Mrs. Harrison will agree to this?”

“She already did. Owning an unregistered handgun is just another charge to his rap sheet as far as she’s concerned. She’ll testify it was me who shot Borsh. Just tell Dr. Watson he won’t be getting his pistol back. It’s evidence now,” she smugly informed.

Greg didn’t have the heart to tell her Mycroft would most likely have another one, probably a _better_ one, in John’s possession before the end of the day.   

“All right,” he easily agreed. “What about our Mr. Harrison, any word yet?”

“Not yet but it's only a matter of time. I think the Missus will find him faster than we will and I for one wouldn’t mind letting her have at him.”

Greg smirked. “Blood thirsty, you are.”

“Some say it’s my best quality,” she said with an answering smile. “See what you can get from the pretty one here,” she nodded at Hartford,“I’ll see what more I can dig up on Mr. Harrison.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a stern nod. She chuckled and then left him alone to watch Mr. Hartford unabashedly. His hatred, the only courage he’d had since learning the truth, wavered a bit while he looked on. The guy was practically still a kid. Sure, the report said he was thirty two and considering his career he’d probably seen a lot in that time, but looking at him now, he looked scared. Small in a way that reminded him of the kids that got picked up off the streets for loitering or solicitation, albeit a bit more cleaned up. He tried to see what Mycroft saw in the guy but besides his obvious beauty it didn’t seem much. What in the hell was Mycroft thinking?

Greg shoved feelings down and bolstered his courage. Masking his face in the stern visage of a battle hardened police detective, first keying in the command to turn off the cameras, he walked into the interrogation room.

Hartford straightened in his seat and his hands loosened on his cup of water, as if he didn’t want to appear frightened.

“Mr. Hartford,” Greg greeted. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. We met last night.”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“I just need to wrap up some loose ends and then you’ll be free to go.”

“Okay,” he licked his lips. “What do you need to know?”

No need to beat around the bush. “What were you doing on Gilbert Street?”

He stared back a beat before answering. “I already told the other detective, I was visiting a friend.”

“Which friend?” He looked the kid dead in the eye, forcing the issue in no uncertain terms.

To his credit, Hartford stared back and firmly replied, “I’d rather not say.”

“For the purposes of the investigation I’m going to need the name of the individual you were visiting, Mr. Hartford. I can’t check your alibi without it.”

“I’m not involved with whatever happened last night. I already explained all of this, I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw John,” he cleared his throat, “Dr. Watson in the street, he looked like he was in trouble, so I stopped the car to see if he needed help. That's all.”

Greg didn’t even blink. “I need that name, Mr. Hartford.”

“And you’ll be waiting a long time for it, _Detective_.”

They stared off at each other for a half a minute. “Your _friend's_ name wouldn’t happen to be Mycroft Holmes, would it, Mr. Hartford?” He practically dripped smugness onto the table between them. Hartford’s only visible reaction was to grip his cup of water just a little bit tighter.

He then nodded as if he’d seen this coming. “So, you know. All right.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“And I know you weren’t there for a friendly visit either.” Just a hint of his pent up anger slipped through and Hartford picked up on it easily. A languid grace stole over his body, like he’d simply given up on maintaining his rigid posture and a cocky sort of power infused his face.

“If you know what it is that I do and you know who I was there doing it with, then you know there is nothing in this world you can do to touch me,” he mockingly replied. “Am I free to go?”

“Not just yet,” Greg spit. “How long have you been associated with Mr. Holmes?”

Hartford looked down at his nails with a raised eyebrow but didn’t answer.

“How long, Mr. Hartford? Mycroft isn’t the only bloke in London with some pull. I could have your entire cliental list in my hands by this afternoon and then posted to The Sun by evening. Don’t think you be so highly in demand then, would you?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growled. “You’d be breaching contract.”

“Wrong. I’m not under contract. Never touched a hair on a pretty bird's head.” Never needed to, he’d been married and then with Mycroft, as short as that had lasted. He’d been too fucked up in the head since to look for anything else.

Hartford gave him a calculated look. “What does any of this have to do with your investigation?”

“Answer the question.”

“You know him,” Hartford quietly noted. Greg did his best to give nothing away visually. “Yeah, I remember, you spoke to each other last night. Didn’t look like either of you were quite happy to see the other if I’m not mistaken. So, what is it? You made me the second you saw me and it threw you for a loop? Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful men in England, likes to get rogered over top of his desk and you can’t deal?”

Greg flinched, couldn’t help it. His skin crawled with the image displayed. Mycroft had practically banished him for daring. Why, when he let this… this _child_ do the same?

“No,” Hartford drawled, “you don’t like that at all. Mr. Holmes taking it up the bum by a street rat… tsk tsk. You poor thing. Bet that just shattered your image of the man.”

“How long?” Greg calmly asked again. He was in danger of being ill but by the grace of god, he’d have his answers.

“About once a month, schedule allowing.” His smile was serene, like he wasn’t bringing Greg’s world down around his ears.

“How long?” Greg whispered for the last time. His eyes were swimming now, his vision blurring against his will.

“Mmm,” he looked up in thought. “Two years, I’d say.”

That was all he needed to know. He backed away mechanically, hands out behind him until he could reach the door. _So stupid_ , he mocked internally, but without any real bite. Even his inner monologue was defeated. This was what came from falling in love with a sociopath. He should have just listened to his instincts in those first years of acquaintance, but no, he’d hoped Mycroft was like Sherlock. That deep down he was craving companionship and affection; the kind that only the right type of person could provide. Why had he thought the man capable? Or that he could be the one to unlock the humanity in Mycroft if it were even possible? _Stupid._ Mycroft had kicked Greg to the kerb for getting too clingy, and then lied about seeing some random woman just to get him to bugger off, and all the while he'd been shagging a prostitute on the side too. It was unbelievable how far he'd sunk with this newly acquired knowledge. 

Greg realized he’d been staring off, up against the door of the room, unable make himself move for fear of collapsing, when Hartford stood. Greg looked over to see a strange look upon the kid's face, part confusion, part shock. 

“Oh my god,” Hartford whispered. “It was you.”

Greg blinked in confusion, though he shouldn’t have; traitorous tears fell and it was too late to pull them back.

Hartford put a hand to his mouth and chuckled without mirth. “What are the odds?”

He scrubbed at his face until the tears were soaked in. “You’re free to go,” he coughed out with as much authority as he could, given the circumstances.

Just as he got his hand around the handle, Hartford called out. “Wait! Detective, wait, please.”

He paused, hand still on the door, if only because the kid sounded sincere for the first time since they’d started.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I thought - I thought you were a bigot or just some kind of pervert or something. I didn’t know you-”

“And you still don’t,” he snapped, still looking down at the doorknob.

“I lied.”

He turned his head fractionally at that. “About what?”

Hartford ran a hand over his face. “He’d murder me in my sleep if he knew I was talking to you about this.”

“I turned the camera off. What did you lie about?”

“About the time frame. There were three months in the spring when I didn’t hear from him. It was strange because he’d been a regular up until that point. I had to get in contact with his assistant to find out if I’d done something wrong. She informed me that my services were no longer required but that I’d fulfilled my ‘duties’ admirably and could be counted on to receive good references.” He chuckled at that. “Like I’d been a fucking intern or something. Can you imagine?”

Greg was still reeling from this news to hear the humour in the way Arabella had conducted Hartford’s termination. So Mycroft _hadn't_ been seeing them both at the same time? He let go of the doorknob but didn’t turn around yet, he was still too raw to gauge whether or not the kid was being genuine.

“When he got in touch again, about four months ago, I was pretty surprised but, you know, eager. As you can probably imagine, he pays damn well. But something was different, he was, I don’t know, despondent? Is that the word? Like," he waved his hand around, "distracted the whole time.”

“He is practically running the country,” Greg pointed out, finally turning to face the room again.

Hartford shook his head. “No, not like that. That never interfered with… activities… before now. It wasn’t work stress, it was like he didn’t give a toss about any of it. I could have been anyone.”

Greg opened his mouth to point out that Hartford was, in fact, a hired sexual partner but a look from the kid shut him up.

“Yeah, I get it, I’m a hooker. But I know Mycroft. I know the difference. And there was something else,” he hedged, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“What?” Greg asked, half scared to hear the answer. His heart was hammering inside his chest, which reminded him to see a doctor for a checkup after this. He didn’t know how much more stress his body could take.

“You’re not going to like hearing it,” he hedged.

“Just bloody tell me," he snapped, desperate for anything. Any scrap of proof that he'd mattered at all. _Pathetic._

He nodded and looked away. “You see, we’ve had a routine of sorts. A set, um, itinerary if you will. Mycroft loves his routine,” he smiled as if to commiserate with Greg. Greg stared back blankly until he continued. “So,” he cleared his throat, “when he asked me to change it, I knew something had happened; I assumed during those few months that he hadn’t needed me. It was fairly obvious there had been someone else, someone who’d changed his tastes, as it were.” He looked up through his eyelashes at Greg and he had to swallow down his sudden embarrassment. It was pretty clear what they were discussing.

“So what?” He growled with more bravado than he felt. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, it’s clear to me that you-“ He looked uncertain if confronting the elephant in the room was wise. “That whatever happened to Mycroft during those three months affected him, deeply. And, Christ, I should be getting paid for these services too while I’m at it… I think you should go talk to him.”

“Piss off.”

“You know, John called me after he worked out everything with his flatmate. That was all me,” he bragged. “I’m the one that told him to go for it. Because he was in the same boat. Scared to take a chance, scared he’d muck it up. And look how that turned out? Perfectly.”

“Not so perfect. Sherlock got shot because of you and he also had a nervous breakdown when he realized you’d had John before he had. Not your fault, I admit, but still.”

“Sherlock…” Hartford’s eyes glazed. Then he crumpled back into his seat with both hands over his face. “John Watson! Dr. John bloody Watson! I’m an idiot! Jesus Christ,” he mumbled into his hands.

Greg had to admit he got a kick out of that. Apparently Hartford hadn’t put two and two together there.

“You didn’t know?” He asked smugly.

“Christ, I was this close,” he growled with two fingers up. “Of all the stupid. ‘Just tell him how you feel.’ Cor, what a cock up. Bloody Hell, _stupid_.” Calvin’s apparent commoner accent was shining through a bit with his agitation.    

Greg’s grin grew despite their previous discussion. “But you got the ball rolling on the famous detective duo getting together, remember? That’s an achievement. Not even the landlady can say that and she’s tried for years.”

“Yeah, that's true, innit?” He smiled a bit. “Yeah. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” He chuckled over that for a bit but then another shadow passed over his face. “Holmes… Holmes…” He looked up at Greg in horror. “No.”

“Yep,” Greg chirped pleasantly. He was really enjoying the new look of shock on the kids face.

“And you… and him… but John and Sherlock… and then me.”

Greg shrugged.

“Right. Well ain’t this a merry triangle of fuckery?” He slapped his knee. “Christ, Mycroft doesn’t know, does he?”

“What, that you almost had John Watson? I tend to think he knows everything but who’s to say?”

“Does he know about his brother and John though?”

“Yeah. As far as John can tell he approves. They’re good for each other, My knows that,” he let the nickname slip accidentally but Calvin didn’t seem to notice.

“Kinda weird but maybe he’s less strict about what his brother gets into.”

“How’d you mean?” He asked, curious.

“Well, y'know. Mycroft's clearly not okay with his, I don’t know, he’d probably call it a predilection. That’s why I thought it strange that he’d all of a sudden decided to start taking it up the arse-“ He looked wide eyed at Greg in fear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get crass. I meant, it was a strange request, given his previous inclinations and it got me wondering what he’d been up to since we last… met.”

“It’s fine,” he lied to keep the tentative peace and to keep the kid talking. 

“Okay look, I’m a pretty good judge of character. It takes one to be good at my job. Mycroft is clearly conflicted about himself. Most guys your age are, between the culture you grew up in, the AIDS scares, all that, I get it and I don’t judge. I’m a prostitute for Christ’s sake. But I never thought Mycroft would actually _date_ a bloke, not in a million years. You guys did though, didn’t you?”

Greg looked down at his shoes suddenly, unsure of how to quantify their relationship. “We, um, I mean, sort of did, yeah, but not seriously. Not like a _normal_ thing, just, uh, you know, fooled around and that.” Meals together was considered more than just hooking up, right?

Hartford watched him fidget with a keen eye. After a beat he crossed his arms.

“You’re as daft as John is. What is it about the Holmes boys that has that effect? Hard to read I suppose, sure, but c’mon. Or maybe they both just have a type.”

“Slumming it?” Greg quipped.

A look of fierce determination came over Hartford’s face. “Sherlock is not _slumming it_ with Captain John Watson,” he snapped.

Greg put up both hands. “Whoa, sorry, didn’t realize you were that big of a fan.”

He tugged on his jacket and sniffed. “That’s not the point. I’m trying to clue you into the fact that you’re both thick headed imbeciles. Or cowards when it comes to love, I’m not sure which.”

Greg bit his cheek to stop the sudden sob that threatened to escape. “It’s not the same. John and Sherlock are bloody soul mates and that is a fact. The thing me and My had, it was a fluke and it’s over.”

“It’s clearly not over for you,” he pointed out with just enough pity that Greg got angry.

“Look, I’m sorry about grilling you. That was unprofessional and I’d be grateful if we could just go our separate ways amicably.” He gave a tight smile and took a step back towards the door again in the hopes he could just go home, bury himself under his blankets and forget the last forty-eight hours had happened. Hell, while he was at it, the last year.

“All right, no more mister nice guy.” He stood up again, back ram rod straight. “Mycroft is making the same damn mistake that John did, ironically with the same damn person, and it’s blowing up in his face, just like it did with John. He’s trying to replace you and it’s not working. He’s not satisfied in the least but he keeps calling anyway hoping the next time it will click. It’s pathetic, frankly, and though I’d die before I’d tell him that, I _am_ telling you. If you’re the reason he’s been so damn strange the last few months you have a moral fucking obligation to fix it.”

Greg’s fists clenched behind his back in agitation. He couldn’t speak the words at first but he forced them past his teeth by sheer will. “He doesn’t want me. He told me as much when we split. I’m too clingy, too emotional, that’s not what he wanted. Look I’m a Detective, I know a clue when I see one. ‘It’s time to move on,’ is a pretty clear hint, don’t you think?”

“Mycroft Holmes, lying? Unheard of,” he retorted with his arms crossed again.

Greg snorted in frustration. “I was over it. I was getting better, until this. I’ll be over it again in time. There’s no point making a fool of myself a second time.”

“Right, fine. Well, if you’re so sure, I’ll just take him up on the offer next time he calls.”

Greg’s teeth mashed together and he gritted out, “Fine. None of my business.”

Hartford didn’t look convinced in the least. “Yeah? Good, I’d hate to lose that cash cow. Can I just say, thanks for the tip about the handcuffs. Never thought in a million years he’d be up for that but now he can’t get off without them.”

Greg had him by the front of his jacket before he even registered moving. Hartford just smiled up at him in victory. Greg dropped him as if burnt, horrified by his actions as much as the motive behind them.

“Just go,” he growled.

“He might not love you, Inspector,” he whispered, “but he needs you. And that’s enough to be going on until you can teach him better.”

He shook his head in denial and Calvin clamped a hand onto his shoulder. “I’ll ignore his calls until one or both of you come to your senses.”

His kindness had tears threatening to fall again. He blinked them away as he continued to look at the table legs. “Thank you. You’re free to go.”

Calvin sighed in resignation and pulled away. Just before he walked through the door he stopped.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this again,” he mumbled. “Just go _talk_ to him. The worst thing that will happen is you’ll have his answer and like you said, you’ll be over it in time.”

Greg smiled a bit at that. “I believe you’re in the wrong profession, Mr. Hartford.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much I bring home a month?”

“Regardless, a romantic does not a good hooker make. You keep letting your johns get away in the name of love you’re going to find yourself homeless.”

Hartford smiled, maybe a bit sad and turned to leave. Before he made it through the door, he ran smack into Dimmock, who snapped back in shock.

“Oh,” he breathed. The young Inspector’s eyes went wide in stunned surprise, curiosity clear in his gaze. Greg lit up in excitement at the way they both stood in the doorway, just looking at each other. He sidled up and put a hand to both of their shoulders. They turned to look at him in surprise, clearly forgetting that he’d been in the room as well.

“Inspector Dimmock, may I introduce you to Calvin Hartford? Calvin was just helping with the Harrison case. Cal, this is Detective Inspector Anthony Dimmock, a colleague.”

“Pleasure,” Calvin greeted easily with a hand out.

Dimmock shook his hand with a close lipped smile. Greg was beaming as he watched the man attempt to pull his professionalism back around his shoulders after the obvious interest. If playing match maker was what he needed to lift his spirits, he’d take it. Calvin’s interest was clearly peaked, the way he smiled at Dimmock with his cheeks dimpling sweetly. Dimmock couldn’t be more interested if Calvin had started stripping using the desk chair as a prop. It was so obvious now. Dimmock had been sweet on Sherlock for years, and wasn’t Calvin practically a little carbon copy of the detective? Greg’s smile grew even wider. They were staring at each other again. 

“Well,” Greg shattered the moment, “I’m off. Dimmock, see Calvin out for me, will you?”

He blinked up at Greg in confusion. “Who, me?”

“Yeah,” he answered and then looked at Cal. “Be good, kid.”

Without looking up he responded, “Oh, I plan to.”

Dimmock stuttered. “Lestrade!”

Greg turned with a grimace, sure Dimmock was going to blow his chances somehow.

“Yeah?”

“Donovan asked me to tell you they found Victor Harrison in Italy,” he informed Greg, a professional lit colouring his tone to say he didn’t know what it meant but assumed Greg would. “They’re flying him in tonight.”

“Oh, good,” he said brightly with a smile. “Have her keep me updated.”

As he walked away he quietly heard Calvin ask Dimmock if he owned any handcuffs. The answering sputter could be heard across the station.

He walked to his office with a smile, grabbed his coat and then left the building. He very much needed to talk to someone, if not about Mycroft then just simply for the company, and considering that his pool of viable options had dwindled to near nonexistent in the last few years, he had no choice but to drive to Baker Street. He knew John would be home, if only because Sherlock was wounded and couldn’t much use to the crime-solving world and John surely wouldn’t leave his side for anything.  Baker Street it was then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Cal wasn't getting it on with anyone in this one. I did manage to find him a sugar daddy though. Something tells me Dimmock will be a good influence on Cal. And vice versa.


	6. Victim Support Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries his best to work on his resolve. Things are just not that simple when it comes to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more angst in this one but you know it's all gonna be okay. *holds you all to my breast and pets your hair*

Mrs. Hudson, with that preternatural sense she had, met him in the front entrance of 221.

“Inspector,” she greeted with a kiss to his cheek that he leant into easily. He’d been asking her to call him Greg for years and it had never stuck.

“All right, Mrs. Hudson?” He smiled down at her. “How are our boys doing? Snug in bed together?”

She opened her mouth to answer but then a sly look stole over her features. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she answered with absolutely no convincible truth whatsoever.

He grinned and leant down with a conspiratorial air. “It’s okay, Mrs. H. John told me last night.”

Her answering grin split her face from one side to the other. She clapped her hands together with glee. “Isn’t it wonderful? Finally!”

“Finally,” he agreed whole heartedly. “Though why you didn’t immediately call me to spill I’ll never know.”

“Oh, Inspector, I wanted to but Sherlock threatened to have me put in a home if I told a soul.” 

Greg snorted. “He would never.”

“I know that. But he’s convinced if people find out, they’ll use his love of John against him. You know, they worry about kidnapping enough as it is.”

He nodded at the truth of that. “Too right I suppose. Well, their secret is safe with us. I was just on my way up to check on Sherlock after last night. He must have strained himself silly since leaving hospital.”

She patted him on the arm. “You know him well.”

“Yes I do,” he said with a touch of pride. “How’s it been? Arguing? Things breaking?”

“No, actually, it’s been strangely quiet.”

Greg hesitated in suspicion. “Like toddlers-up-to-no-good quiet, they’re-missing quiet or…” He gave her a look to indicate the delicate question he wasn’t asking.

“Pfft,” she puffed, “I wish that were the case. How do you think I found out about them?”

Ahh,” he grimaced at her lack of tact but gave a helpless chuckle, “right. Well here’s hoping they’re at least fully dressed.” He gave her another smile and made his way up. He hesitated, with an ear to the door first, before knocking gently. Two knocks later a rather frazzled looking John answered the door with a finger to lips to indicate silence. He walked carefully forward when John motioned him inside.

“I just got him to sleep, god help you if you wake him up,” John informed him quietly.

Greg snorted so hard he made his nose wet. He indelicately wiped off on his coat sleeve and quietly muttered, “You do realize you’ve made your boyfriend sound like an infant.”

“If the shoe fits,” he wrinkled his nose, “and don’t call him my boyfriend. That’s just weird.”

“What do you call him?”

He looked around in confusion. “Sherlock,” John finally answered.

“Course,” he quipped.

John dropped heavily into his chair and Greg followed suit.

“Do you know how hard it is to give generic painkillers to a former drug addict? He keeps shaking them off and trying to roam the flat.” John took a frustrated breath and let it out slowly, like this was the first bit of respite he’d had in hours. He was just the poster for new parenthood. Greg couldn’t stop grinning. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” he huffed. “I blame you for all of it.”

“Me?” Greg asked incredulously. “What did I do now?”

“You encouraged him on the case.” He ticked the second point off on his fingers. “You talked me into going to a damn cat house, thus putting me in the position of confronting my feelings for the pain in the arse.” Another tick. “Hell, you were the one who came bursting in with the very first case, The Study in Pink case, thus insuring my addiction for said pain in the arse in the first place.”

Greg put up a hand and ticked off his counter points. “Sherlock was going to solve the bloody case whether I joined or not; least I brought a little legality to the thing.” Another tick. “You would have gotten there eventually on your own because,” last tick, “you two are fucking soul mates and nothing you say will change my mind on that point. It was fate.”

John smiled to himself. “We are, aren’t we?”

“Besides, our good friend Calvin is taking all the credit for your great love affair.”

John laughed. “Really? I suppose he did have a hand in it.”

“Whoa, I don’t need details.” He put his hands up to block when John threw the Union Jack pillow at him. They both laughed at the absurdity of it.

“So you interviewed him today I take it. Did he spill the beans about Mycroft?” He asked, all morbid curiosity.

Greg took an impatient breath. “Not that I’d tell you confidential police business,” he said, noting John’s patient face, simply waiting for Greg to get done posturing. On the fly he decided to lie through his teeth. “He was sleeping with someone on Mycroft’s staff and that’s all I’ll say about that. If you repeat that I’ll see you chained in a dungeon. And I know people with dungeons.”

“Oh,” John’s face fell, “that’s disappointing.”

“What? I’d thought you’d be happy Mycroft wasn’t sleeping with your old conquest.”

“Well, yeah, but that was before. Now I feel bad for the poor bastard.”

A chill ran down Greg’s spine. “What about the poor bastard?” He asked relatively calmly considering the roiling wave inside his guts.  

“When you told me he was married before I asked Sherlock why he’d never told me. He didn’t want to talk about it but, you know, my curiosity was peaked and bastard that I am, I got it out of him. Apparently his wife was murdered by Serbian soldiers during the Croatian Wars back in the nineties. Mycroft blames himself because they were after him and he let her go in his stead to get a message to some important political figure. It’s the reason he stopped doing legwork. Can you believe that? Like something out of a movie, for Christ’s sake.”

Greg was too shocked to respond. His hands shook in his lap and he was dangerously close to bottoming out like he had with Calvin just the hour before. The roller coaster of emotions he’d been on these last few days was absurd. His head fell into his hands in horror when the weight of guilt fell around him, into him. 

“Greg,” John exclaimed, clearly shocked.

“I said awful things,” he breathed. No force on Earth could get him to finish his thought aloud. _I said awful things and he still liked me enough to… to…_ Christ, he could even finish the thought to himself.

“About his wife?” John asked softly, wary of Greg’s sudden dejection.

“Yes, and,” he didn’t finish. He’d give the whole thing away if he wasn’t careful. Despite what he’d originally thought apparently the words were suddenly sitting in his mouth, just waiting to leap off his tongue. _‘I had an affair with Mycroft, for all intents and purposes your brother-in-law, who was sleeping with the man you last slept with before Sherlock, Mycroft’s baby brother.’_ When had his life turned into an episode of East Enders? 

“I’m sure you had good reason, whatever it was,” John said with complete confidence in Greg’s standing.

He snorted without humour. “He had just kidnapped me for the first time.”

John laughed at that. “I understand the anger then. He did the same to me.”

“No,” Greg shook his head, still bitter about the unfair disparity in their experiences. “He had me tranquilized, tied up, black bagged, thrown in the back of a van, taken in so he could threaten me and then, on top of all that. he had the gall to talk shit about my ancestors running from France during the Terror. I was locked in the boot of a car for three hours while they drove around in circles from this super-secret underground facility and do you know where I was when they let me out? Chelsea.”

John eyes widened comically. “Wow,” he licked his lips, “yeah I’d say you had a right to be mad. Makes me seem kinda whingy in comparison now.”

Greg gave a token smile, still raw from the guilt. “I have no excuse. I had every right to my anger but I had no right to say things about his wife.”

“Hey,” John leaned forward in his seat and, uncharacteristically, placed his hand over Greg’s, “you didn’t know and you were probably stressed out, and besides, that would have been, what, almost ten years ago? I’m sure he’s forgiven it. He’s not one to hold a grudge without making you immediately aware of it.”

A memory flashed, Greg in Mycroft’s bed, arm wrapped around his middle while he held tight to his hand, pressed it right up against his heart while they slept. The last night they’d spent together. His heart kicked in his chest and he turned his hand up to squeeze John’s. When he looked up John had his head cocked like he was trying to work out what the problem was, but before he could utter a single platitude, a rumbling voice spoke into the quiet.

“John, I had a terrible nightmare.”

They both started at the suddenness of Sherlock’s arrival. He looked up to see the man wrapped up in a sheet, up over his head like the proverbial toddler he was. His feet were bare and Greg could only hope he was wearing pants. He’d heard about the Buckingham Palace incident.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John huffed and let go of Greg’s hand so he could turn in his seat. “What happened?”

“I dreamt you were holding hands with Geoff in our chairs. It was horrific,” he pouted sadly, words slurred by the pain killers.

John turned slowly to look at Greg, eyes dancing with mirth, mouth pressed shut, lest he start laughing and never stop. Greg sneaked his hand in his coat pocket but John beat him to the punch.

“Produce your phone and it goes right into the fireplace.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I can actually.” John stood and walked over to take a hold of Sherlock. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“It’s fine, I just wanted to check on him but I see you got the situation under control. You might want to invest in a baby gate though, just in case he tries to get loose in the night.”

John shook his head with a chuckle. “Hardly necessary since we sleep together now.”

“Right,” Greg murmured. He stood and walked to the front door.

“John, you’re not going to sleep with Gavin are you?” The poor drug-addled sod muttered.

“I would never,” John promised.

Greg pantomimed a wound to his heart and John gave him a two finger salute just before they disappeared into the bedroom. He managed a chuckle, a bit lighter in his heart than he had been the dark moments of before.

That was until he opened the door to find Mycroft on the other side.

He stood equally as still, freshly pressed of course, in one of his best charcoal and burgundy suits. Greg had been too shocked the night before to note his attire, but here in the light of day he afforded himself the luxury of taking his fill. He looked good. Stoic, trying valiantly to be as unreadable as always. Greg noted smugly that he had indeed brought John a new pistol; the black plastic case sat between his arm and chest. He was staring at Greg, reading him just the same, and he thought, maybe he was feeling fanciful, he looked a bit rattled to see Greg, which made no sense. He would have seen Greg’s car out front, would have heard them talking. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard Mycroft walk up the stairs, and as Sherlock was so fond of pointing out, Mycroft ‘lumbered up the stairs like a herd of fat elephants.’ It was a horrible exaggeration, obviously, but it was true that he usually made his presence known. But he hadn’t this time; he’d bloody snuck up the stairs like a thief. The fact that Mycroft hadn’t forgotten his training from his legwork days had been one of Greg’s biggest turn-ons. He wasn’t turned on just then. 

“Inspector,” Mycroft intoned with a nod.

Greg cut through the bullshit immediately. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I just arrived,” he declared, the picture of calm innocence. A lie detector wouldn’t have ticked.

“Bollocks. I can hear your umbrella tap from a kilometre away.”

His hand tightened on said umbrella handle but otherwise he just smiled that tight lipped, public school, you-are-beneath-me smile and walked past. Something about the moment struck him, maybe the thought of Mycroft standing on the other side of the door, listening in like a teenage girl, or perhaps it was simply time he let go of all the tension he'd been carrying, but whatever it was he started laughing. A damn burst and he couldn’t stop. Mycroft calmly watched as he slowly got a grip on himself, with one last chuckle as he wiped a tear away.

“Are you quite finished?”

“Oh, My,” he quietly drawled,“despite what you probably wish, I still know you. Well enough to know when you’re snooping anyway.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, perhaps to argue over the point, but nothing came out. Greg stood waiting for something, any reason at all to continue talking to the man, but Mycroft eventually settled on, "Good day, Inspector."

Greg chuckled once more, gave a smile and a nod and then walked away. A pathetic part of him hoped Mycroft would call him back but of course he didn’t. _It’s for the best,_ he told himself as he ducked into his car. He was already doing well, being able to laugh about Mycroft after everything he’d been through today, it was a damn miracle really.

                                                                                                                      ~*~

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. There was some paper work to turn in, he vaguely remembered, and something about a possible lead on another case. Donovan was on top of that. He should have been ashamed at how much slack she had picked up for him over the last few months but everyone knew she was going to end up with his job eventually. It was only good practice as far as Greg was concerned.

He eventually made it home, blinking tiredly into the brightness of his kitchen light as he took in the sad state of it. He was just too bloody tired to deal with dirty dishes and old take away containers. His life had gone to hell in the last year, he could hardly be blamed for letting the kitchen go. It felt like layers upon layers of guilt, shame, regret, pain, things he had no quick cures for, just piled up alongside the rubbish. Between the stress of his job, Dawn leaving, Mycroft turning everything on its head and then tossing him aside… He didn’t know what the point was anymore. The situation wasn’t so bleak that he even remotely thought about ending it all but he was just so bloody _exhausted_. The longer he stared at the mess of the flat the more he became agitated with it. It was possible, he told himself, that he could dredge up a bit more energy to clean the kitchen at the very least. His coat went into the closet, he toed his shoes off, tossed his suit jacket over the back of the chair at the counter and set about cleaning. Once he started he couldn’t seem to stop. The kitchen, the sitting room, the loo, the bedroom.

Around eleven that evening he fell back against the sofa with a box of takeaaway leftovers and a bottle of blackberry dark ale and sighed contently at a job well done. The flat was near spotless. He’d even dusted. He sipped his beer and looked around with pride.

“One step at a time,” he mumbled aloud.

It was a silly metaphor but he did actually feel lighter with some of the clutter gone. Like he’d cleaned up this small part of his life and it’d made the rest seem possible as well. He knew he and Mycroft were done, that was a given, but things in that moment didn’t seem so bleak. There were more fish in the sea, as it were. He and My were a train wreck, that was clear from the beginning, but while it had lasted it had been great. He’d always have that.

He toasted the air with his empty bottle, dumped the empty noodle box and glass in the bin and flipped the light off. Nightly absolutions were done with minimal effort; he’d already cleaned, what more was expected? The fall into bed was bliss and he was out within seconds.

In the midst of a dream, one where he was watching his Gram wash windows in a summer home she’d never owned, Greg snapped to consciousness with no apparent warning. His heart pumped adrenaline straight to his extremities, causing tingling pain to shoot up and down his legs that he tried hard to shake off. Only he couldn’t move. Once that was established it quickly became apparent why.

“Get off me,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I,” Mycroft snapped back. “Tell me why Mr. Hartford is no longer taking my calls.”

Greg sighed, long and weary. So this was about Calvin. Great. Greg had cut off his access to his favourite booty call and now he was mad. Go figure.

“Poor Mycroft. What’s the matter? Can’t get off unless it’s with someone being paid?” He was being cruel, but then again Mycroft had broken into his flat again and was pinning his torso down forcefully. Oh, how he wished he could arrest this man.

Mycroft snorted. “Nice try. Answer the question.”

“I don’t what you’re talking about.” He looked up at the alarm clock. “Christ. Can I go back to sleep? It’s two in the bloody morning.”

“No, Inspector, I’m afraid not. You interfered- you _meddled-_ in affairs outside your jurisdiction. I’m concerned you didn’t quite grasp the part where I said we remain on civil terms. This is hardly civil.”

“I agree. Breaking and entering, assault on a police officer, threatening a police officer. And did _you_ just accuse _me_ of meddling?” 

“What did you say to him, Gregory?” Mycroft growled.

The sound of his name caused a swift drop in Greg's stomach. And that pissed him off. “That you were a total loser and he could totally do better. Then we went out for mimosas and flirted with hot guys at the mall,” Greg mimicked in his best impression of his fifteen year old niece.

Mycoft pressed harder into Greg’s shoulders and seethed. “You are not taking this situation as seriously as I’d like.”

“Excuse me for not weeping openly in the aisles.” He settled in, hoping against hope that he could fall asleep if Mycroft managed to shut up for long enough. Not likely considering the massive wide-on Greg was sporting. Daft thing never could understand the subtleties of context. He was glad for the extra blanket between them at least. 

“I tried to obtain the footage from your interrogation today. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it didn’t exist. Now why would that be? Are you sure you’re not hiding anything, Inspector?”

“You’re not allowed to obtain police interview tapes,” he gritted out past his teeth, angry, even though he knew Mycroft didn’t give a fig for illegalities. Quite obviously. 

“You shouldn’t have let your jealousies affect your professionalism,” Mycroft spit back.

Greg deflated at that. Because he was right. He _had_ let his petty jealousy get the better of him and he’d made a fool of himself in front of a witness. Just because it had sort of worked out in the end didn’t mean he was in the right. He’d used his position of power to coerce answers to questions he had no right to ask. Mycroft stared down at him with that searching look he knew so well, trying to find the source of his sudden change in posture.

“You’re right. I did inappropriately question Calvin. But I swear I didn’t tell him to stop taking your calls. He came to that decision on his own.”

“What did you say to him?” He asked again, still apparently convinced that it was all Greg’s fault.

“He figured it out on his own. I’m not one of your spies, I have no poker face to speak of. He, um,” he stopped and licked his lips nervously, afraid to admit to the depth of horror he’d felt at Calvin’s admission. “He told me how long you two were, uh… intimate, and I reacted badly.”

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed. His weight settled less on his shoulders, as if he’d suddenly realized what he was doing.

“Yeah, it was awkward. He seems to have come to the conclusion that he’s come between two star crossed lovers. I swear I had no hand in his delusion, My. In fact I repeatedly explained that it was over and you were free to do as you pleased but… Obviously he didn’t listen. I am sorry.”

He leaned further back at that, almost sitting straight up. His arse was thankfully planted further down his legs and not directly in his lap. He stared down at Greg, the way his eyes roamed stirred memories of times, not that long ago, when this position wouldn’t have been so bittersweet. Now that the anger on both sides seemed to have cleared they both quietly stared at one another, both unsure where to go from there. Mycroft came to the conclusion that anger had served him better apparently because Greg watched as he pulled his arrogant righteousness back around like a cloak. The sight boiled Greg’s blood.

“I’ll have to fix this immediately,” Mycroft muttered.

“Too late for that I think,” he smugly informed the bastard.

“Why?” He drawled back.

“Because fate intervened and now I’m fairly sure he's sweet on DI Dimmock.”

Mycroft glared down at him, the light from the alarm clock illuminated his face in such a way that he looked like an incubus- a creature hell-bent on Greg’s destruction.

“Fate,” Mycroft spit the word like an epithet. “And you had no hand in that I’m sure.”

“I may have introduced them but I didn’t force the moon eyes they were making at each other.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” he snarled.

“Hey! It’s not my job to make sure you continue to get laid anymore. That was your call, remember?” _Petty, Greg, you’re getting petty._

Mycroft glared down as if everything were still Greg’s fault and Greg snapped.

“Look, you were doing a perfectly good job at getting laid before me and I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to continue after. Mr. Hartford isn’t the only hooker in the London Metro area. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve only had three hours of sleep, I’d like to get back to it.”

Mycroft blinked down at him. They sat at an impasse, both quiet in the dark of the room, until Mycroft whispered, “I apologize for disturbing you.”

“Yeah? Good. You gonna get off me at any point or should I just settle in with you on my legs for the rest of the night?”

Slowly, carefully, Mycroft slid off. Greg tried not to react to the way Mycrofft's fingers dragged slowly down his shoulders to briefly touch skin as he pulled away- perhaps it wasn't slowly and that was just the way his mind interpreted it- but it flushed his skin nonetheless. Mycroft settled on the opposite side of the bed and Greg expected him to continue on, but he didn’t. He sat on the right side of the bed - Dawn’s side a part of him noted, still unable to reconcile sleeping alone after fourteen years - back turned away and there he remained. When he started sliding his shoes off Greg sat up.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m tired,” he answered, still seeming to make himself at home as he peeled his socks off and pulled the comforter back.

“Then stay at the fucking Hilton,” he snapped.

Mycroft looked up as he lay his head down on the pillow. “I have no designs on you, Inspector. I just need to think and I need quiet. No one knows I’m here. I won’t be bothered.” He rolled away and faced the opposite wall.

Greg grit his teeth. _I will be bothered_. “You could stay on the couch.”

All he received was a noncommittal grunt. Greg glared at the back of Mycroft’s head and fumed.

_You can’t do this. You can’t show up after months of no contact, after making me face the fact that you’re shagging a much younger, prettier, well-off bloke, after you said you needed to start taking your life in a more ‘stable, traditional direction’. After months of pining and bitter resentment, you can’t just show up, accuse me of meddling and then crash in my bed like it’s no big deal. You can’t._

_I’m still in love with you, you son of a bitch._

Of course he didn’t actually say any of this. He simply settled back down and rolled away. Having their backs to each other did absolutely nothing to ease the tension. Would he even be able to sleep now that he wasn’t alone? It never occurred to him to get up himself and sleep on the couch. There simply weren’t enough functioning brain cells left to parse this new challenge. But worry over it he did. The possible motivations for Mycroft staying bounced around in his skull until it throbbed in protest. Mycroft was manipulative, sneaky, calculating. This wasn’t as simple as ‘I need a quiet place to think.’ Oh, no. Of that Greg was sure. But what then? He said it wasn’t about sex. If he’d wanted it, he could have got it. He had to know that’s how stupidly easy Greg was, so it wasn’t that. Was he simply so ignorant of Greg’s feelings, he didn’t realize what this would do to him? Sherlock was known for ignoring social cues in favour of getting what he wanted. Thankfully John could be counted on to corral him in the more offensive matters. But Mycroft was known for his strict adherence to ‘normal human behavior’. Legal matters were one thing to ignore, not to mention his meddlesome ways when it came to Sherlock, but when it came to polite, courteous treatment towards others you wouldn’t find a more English Englishman in the realm. Greg had at one point found himself in that small circle of people Mycroft had let his guard down with, let himself relax and be as genuinely sweet or rude as he pleased. Greg must still be special then.

 _Chuffed, really_ , he internally snarked.

Still didn’t help him figure out why Mycroft had chosen here and now to simply lie down and sleep. If that’s what he was really doing.

He had to stop himself from turning his head to look, several times in fact.

Eventually, he did manage to snatch a few extra hours sleep, fitful and light though they were. He kept waking up and looking over, expecting Mycroft to be gone, but he never was. When he did finally open his eyes for good it was to Mycroft’s face, relaxed in sleep. Greg was somewhat surprised to find they hadn’t woken tangled together embarrassingly at any point. Though they had gravitated toward one another in the middle of the bed, they had both managed to keep away from the other. Mycroft’s knees were mere inches from his own, his soft exhales falling just shy of Greg’s chin. He’d never had this, not once, during the entire, short, span of their relationship, if one didn’t count that very first morning. He’d always woken alone after and been too embarrassed to seriously ask Mycroft to stay. How dare he give Greg this now when he wasn’t allowed to reach out and pull him close, as he wanted so desperately to do. The low simmering anger made him bold; as bold as speaking to a man that was unconscious could purport to be.

Greg steeled himself and whispered, “I have no right to ask but… could you have loved me at all, given more time?”

“You have every right to ask, Gregory,” Mycroft quietly answered, eyes still closed.

Greg’s heart rate tripled. He licked his lips and wiped his suddenly sweating hands off on the comforter.

“Well?” He asked, suddenly desperate for an answer.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Greg. “Would you feel differently if I said yes?”

Greg thought he was going to either scream, vomit, or possibly cry. “It depends.”

“On?”

“On how you want to proceed.” He glanced away, too unsteady to meet Mycroft’s eyes any longer. When he looked back Mycroft seemed to be patiently waiting for something else. “What do you want, My?”

The man pursed his lips a bit, looking thoughtful. It was a ruse. Mycroft Holmes didn’t need to _look_ thoughtful, he just _was_ , and that fact made Greg very angry.

When no answer was forth coming Greg got up, dug through the nearest pile of clean clothes, pulled out enough to be decent, and then walked out. Mycroft didn’t stop him. He didn’t know what he expected - Mycroft had spent the night, it wasn’t like they were suddenly _married_ \- but he thought he’d at least follow. For all Greg knew as he left the flat the man was still tucked in his bed. He marched to his car, got inside and drove off without a second glance.

A small voice whispered at him to side-swipe Mycroft’s Jag on the way out. He didn’t. He wanted to but he didn’t.

His palms slid slick on the steering wheel as he turned away from the flat. He was very aware of the fact that he had walked away from possibly the biggest moment of his life. Would Mycoft have answered? Was he a coward for not waiting?

“Yes,” he whispered to the empty car. His hands tightened on the wheel. The road blurred the longer he drove and it was a miracle he didn’t drive into oncoming traffic, honestly, he was so distracted. It was obvious he needed to pull over but he wanted a final destination more. Baker Street? No, it was too early. They’d still be in bed together. His stomach gave a sick lurch at the thought. God dammit, he wanted that. He’d _had_ that, for a moment, but it wasn’t real. Would never be real. Even if My did love him back, even if he decided he wanted to continue where they had left off, as unlikely as all that was, they’d never have a normal relationship. It was never going to _go_ anywhere. He knew that; he’d repeated that like a mantra for months now. It still didn’t feel real. He still wanted to go to bed next to Mycroft and know that he’d be there when Greg woke up. It was like an instinct he couldn’t suppress, an ache he couldn’t soothe. And more, so much more. He wanted to take Mycroft to the beer festival at the Olympic Grand so they could pick out their favourites and to the antique market in Notting Hill where he’d once seen a shop that did custom umbrellas. He’d stumbled in long before they’d started seeing each other but he’d thought of Mycroft even then. He would have taken him there after but it seemed like something you did with a partner, not with someone you occasionally boffed in the study.

He pulled the car over swiftly as he finally broke down. His fist hit the dash with a satisfying crunch, so he did it again. And again. And again.

It was idiotic, he was acting like a damn fool, he knew that but he couldn’t stop.

Months of work - wasted. He’d been doing so well, hardly a weep or a moan for several weeks now. And then Calvin. And then the news of Mycroft’s wife. And then bloody Mycroft himself, like a thief in the fucking night, come to steal his resolve. How dare he give Greg the thing he’d wanted most and then…

Well, he hadn’t taken it away. Not really. But…

“Hell.”

He looked around in a daze. Where was he?

The familiar architecture said Chelsea, near Milly’s actually. Intentional? Perhaps. He hadn’t been in months, not since last April, for obvious reasons. If he went in now would Milly forgive him? She could put fish wives to shame with her admonishments so it was unlikely he’d get in and out unscathed. He glanced at the clock. It was too early, the restaurant wouldn’t even open for another few hours, but he had nowhere else to go.

Before long he found himself parked outside the diner. It was still too early, and even though he knew she lived in the apartment above the shop and could easily knock on her door, he would never make himself a nuisance in that way.

He was busy staring at his now bruised hand - Lord knew how long he’d been sat there in a daze - when a knock startled him out of his stupor. His head whipped to the side to see Milly, wrapped in an old, ratty, pea green house coat, a resigned scowl in place as she gave him the old-fashioned motion to roll down his window. He pressed the down button and swallowed nervously.

“This has got to be the worst stakeout I’ve ever seen,” she informed the Inspector.

“Cause it’s not a stakeout,” Greg admitted in embarrassment for getting caught.

“No?” She mused sarcastically.

“No. Just good old fashioned sulking,” he admitted.

She shook her head in exasperation. “C’mon then. Looks to me like you could use an omelet.”

He rolled the window up with resignation as she walked away and then followed as she made for the diner. He noted with some humour that she sported panda-shaped slippers on her feet. It would have been easy to tease her about them but if she was going to cook for him that seemed ill-advised.

“You make omelets too,” he curiously noted as she unlocked the door.

She rolled her eyes as she swept them inside. “He only orders the burger and _I’m_ the one trick pony.”

He laughed at that and sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “What can I say? You make a mean burger, Mil.”

She gave a wide grin, that timeless, spunky thing that never failed to be contagious. “I guess I’ll forgive you for not showing up for the last three months.” He started to make his apologies but she waved him off. “We’re square, dear. Come sit at the bar.” She waved at him to sit. He complied and she busied herself pouring him a drink. He gladly shot the whiskey back when she slid the tumbler to him, despite the fact that it was eight in the morning.

“This moping about have anything to do with a certain government employee with both know?” She asked without prompting.

He flinched but nodded weakly.

She nodded back and seemed to muse on the information. “How do you want your omelet?”

He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Uh, I’m sure whatever you make will be fine.”

“Obviously,” she muttered. “ _How do you want it?”_

He licked his lips. “Sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, onions.”

She quirked another smile, like she was proud of him for complying, and made for the kitchen. Being left alone gave him too much time to think and he’d decided that was a bad thing, so he reached under the counter and snatched the whiskey bottle and poured himself another two fingers. He studied the label as he sipped his liquid appetizer. Glenfiddich. Good stuff.

“You smuggling booze, Mil? Is that what it is?” He called to her through the kitchen window, clearly teasing.

She poked her head out. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“No, not really,” he admitted. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Well knock it off. I like you against my better judgment. I’d like to keep you around.”

He smiled at that and let her get back to cooking. The whiskey was doing wonders for his thought process but he valiantly decided to put the bottle away when Mil came out with his plate, if only to give the dish the attention it deserved. He unwrapped the utensils, pulled his fork and was just starting to cut into the fluffy yellow creation when the bells chimed above the door. He didn’t look up but he did freeze with his fork in the air.

“Mil?” He mumbled, eyes still locked on his plate.

“This one's on you, kid,” she answered, unhelpfully, and then shuffled away.

“Milly,” Mycroft greeted the cook easily, his welcome unquestioned.

The sound of his voice did things to Greg’s insides. His hand wavered over the plate as Mycroft sat casually next to him at the bar.

“Finish your meal, Gregory,” he commanded regally. Greg thought about setting his fork down and walking away, if only to aggravate the man, but the meal was too promising to walk away from and he wouldn’t disrespect Milly’s hard work, even to piss off Mycroft.

He cut into the omelet and near inhaled the thing after the first bite. Christ, the woman was a genius in the kitchen. She’d splashed some hot sauce on the thing without asking and it was _perfect_ , without his even knowing it was needed. He guzzled the milk she’d set down too, unerringly intuitive.

“Is she married?” He asked on a whim.

Mycroft chuckled. “If she weren't she would soon find herself so. If just to stop you from running away with her.”

“I still might,” he found himself teasing despite his resolve not to give into the man so easily. He turned with renewed promises to keep himself in check.

Mycroft looked him over, obviously reading his body language. “Milly,” he unexpectedly called out, daze still unerringly on Greg, until the woman appeared guilelessly from the hallway. “Privacy, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re no fun,” she grumbled and left from the front door.

Greg tried not to laugh and failed. When he looked up again Mycroft wasn’t laughing. He looked quite serious actually, so Greg arranged his face accordingly. Whatever came next deserved his full, undivided attention.

“You didn’t give me a chance to answer.”

He swallowed at that. It was true, he’d left before any sort of discussion could be had, but he’d thought it best at the time. _Wasn’t it?_

“I was angry,” Greg admitted.

Mycroft nodded. “I understand. You have every right to your anger.”

“I do?” He blurted out. _Idiot._ “I mean, I know that.”

Mycroft smiled, seemingly against his better judgment. The conversation seemed to lull and Greg glanced nervously around the diner. Fitting they were having this conversation here of all places. It had started here after all.

“So…” Greg prompted, unable to take the stasis much longer.

Mycroft looked up and met his eye, almost shyly. It did something to Greg’s insides to see. Hope became a dangerous insurgent, weeding its way through his body unbidden.

"I would have you understand, Gregory, that in my line of work-"

"Paper pushing," Greg interrupted. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together, the corners lifting against his will, but managed to maintain his cool. "Yes. In the vastly underwhelming field of paper pushing, there are things that I must do, decisions to be made, that only a certain type of individual can accomplish with a clear conscience. And as you can imagine, I rapidly excelled in my field. I've been known by many as the single coldest operative in Her Majesty's employ, a reputation that has served me well and has never given me cause to regret." He paused and swallowed hard. Greg's flutter of hope grew in the face of his uncharacteristic hesitation. "But with you I...I've come to doubt myself several times over the last few months." He blew out a breath of frustration. "I'll speak plainly. I've haven't come to regret a decision like the one I made the day we last...spoke in twelve years. And when I say regret, I mean I have wallowed in misery since the second you left my study. Pushing you away was one of the hardest and most heinous acts I can recall perpetrating in conscious memory. I have only come to regret it more and more as time goes on. After much thought I've come to one conclusion."

Greg froze with his fists in his lap and waited for the answer as if he had all the time in the world. As if his stomach wasn't on the verge of emptying all of Milly's hard work onto the tile at his feet.  

When Mycroft spoke it was with a softly delivered, “I’d very much like to deport you."

Greg's shoulders fell and he choked out a laugh. “What?”

“I would like to deport you,” he repeated.

“Yeah?” He slowly hedged. Where the hell was he going with this? It was hardly the epic love confession he'd been hoping for- er, worrying over rather.

He started when Mycroft gently grabbed his hand, the one he’d smashed into his dash board, and softly ran his thumb over the knuckles, like he knew what Greg had done. Of course he did.

“Yes. I’d like very much to send you away to some god awful sunny place. A place so bright you’d pray for a damp, grey London sky. I’d force you to stay until your skin turned brown and you started picking up the local language. Until you forgot that normal people didn’t greet each other by name at the market or return forgotten paper backs left at café tables. You’d sample local cuisine, sit for impromptu musical numbers, cheer for local sporting events, even if you didn’t understand the rules. You’d love it there and you'd never want to leave.”

Greg sat in stunned silence. As far as speeches went it was a pretty good one. But a love confession?

He blinked and stupidly whispered, “Yeah?” again. 

“Yes. Now ask me if I’d endure that with you.”

 _Jesus, Mary and Joseph_. _Here it comes._ He swallowed back a hiccup. “Would you endure that with me, My?”

“Every minute,” he answered with conviction, leaning into Greg’s space. “I’d bring up our little getaway to anyone who would listen. I’d bore Andrea to death with descriptions of our rented rooms. I’d make John shove his fingers in his ears with stories of our neighbor’s children. I’d talk so long and so cheerfully of the simple pleasure of your pleasure my brother would attempt to have me committed just to get me to stop. I’d tell the Queen how bloody in love with you I am until she sent me away with the flick of her wrist. And I wouldn’t even care. Because I _am_ in love with you. Have been for some time.”

He thought he'd been prepared...

Greg wasn't sure when it had started but he was openly crying at this point. Shamefully blinking away tears with such force he thought he’d splashed some onto his lap. Or maybe Mycroft was crying too. It was hard to tell. He was too bloody embarrassed to look up fully to check. 

“How are you so daft?” Greg muttered as he scrubbed at his face. “You could have told me at any time! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mycroft reached out and pulled Greg forward, his arms around him and his head in the crook of Greg's neck, and just squeezed him hard. They rested against each other in silence for long moments.

When Mycroft did speak, it was soft, whispered in his ear. “Sophia.”

Greg pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “Your wife?”

He nodded. “We were drawing too close, you and I. I was finding it harder and harder to distance myself from you as I had done in the past. I knew seeing you was a mistake in that regard. I wanted you too much from the beginning, you see.”

Greg could hardly believe the words but oh, how he wanted to. He couldn't have dreamed this moment up better if he tried. “Really?”

“Yes. And I’d avoided all that for a very good reason. I’d gotten someone I cared deeply for killed once before. It was crippling.” He looked away briefly before turning back with renewed focus. “I couldn’t go through that again.”

“And now?” He asked warily.

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked away again. “I should think that was obvious. I can’t seem to stay away from you no matter how hard I try.” He licked his lips and glanced over to Greg in something that looked suspiciously like nervousness or guilt. Possibly both. 

“What?” Greg demanded.

“Last night wasn’t the first time I’d crept into you room,” he admitted.

Greg’s eyebrows climbed high. “You pulled an Edward Cullen on me?”

“A who?” He furrowed his brows back.

“Why did I think you’d get that reference? It’s nothing, from a stupid movie. My niece made me watch it.”

He hummed in a confused-but-not-going-to-ask sort of way. “I would attempt to excuse my behavior, but I realize there is no excuse. I simply wanted to see you. Not through grainy CCTV footage," he said, admitting to another form of inappropriate behavior. Greg was suppressing a smile so big it would do permanent damage to his face if he let it loose. "It was beyond inappropriate but..I needed to be near you and as it had been my decree that we stop seeing each other I couldn't very well show up on your doorstep with a case of peach lager and ask how your day was." Greg smirked but let him continue. "I can’t expect you to forgive me for any of it. I treated you atrociously and I know I'll never be able to take any of it back but...I must know - could you forgive enough to possibly give me another chance? At something more than a liaison?”

Greg pulled away a bit at that, his hands still resting gently on Mycroft's wrists, not entirely sure he should go with his gut on this one. Firstly, he'd been drinking- that had to factor in at least a little bit. But the worst was he’d forgiven Dawn a hundred times for breaking his heart and look where it had gotten him. Hadn’t he been inuring his heart against this very thing for months? Wishing for it and then dreading it. He'd gone through every stage of betrayal, anger, grief, and acceptance he possibly could over the last four months and he was still willing to lay down and let this man steam roll right over him. Was it a sign of Greg's weakness or a sign of how utterly in love he still was? Christ, Mycroft _had_ been horrible to him- to walk away the way he had, to lie the way he had- it was unconscionable.  If he had any pride at all Greg would have kicked his arse out of bed last night as soon as he'd appeared. 

Mycroft’s countenance didn’t change but his frame was obviously tense. “You’re still very angry with me,” he stated.

_And yet..._

Greg admitted to it. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I probably will be for a while yet. But…” He was an idiot twice over but he knew he couldn’t lie, not now, not with Mycroft’s admission still buzzing in his veins. “Christ, you have to know I’d forgive you nearly anything. You are the single most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m really not. You seem to be labouring under this impression that I’m a _good_ person.”

Greg’s lips twitched at that. He pulled Mycroft forward with a finger under his chin and kissed him for the first time in months. Because he had to. It was as simple as that. They lingered that way for half a minute or so, both sighing, relishing the novelty and the familiarity of it. When he pulled back, Greg whispered against his lips, “You are manipulative, sneaky, and all around an unbelievable bastard.” Mycroft frowned but Greg continued, “But you _are_ good, My. Perhaps not the clear cut definition of the word- your hands are far from clean, I’m sure- but everything you do, though it might not be in _your_ best interest, it is in the best interest of this country. And no one can argue with that.”

He shook his head again. “I’ve started wars, Gregory.”

He sighed at that. “I won’t talk down to you. I’m sure you’ve made terrible decisions along the way, cost good people their lives, but you did it all with the bigger picture in that amazing brain of yours. You’re always a dozen steps ahead. You know, I’ve gotten people killed too. If you’re bad, then so am I.” Mycroft opened his mouth to argue but Greg shut him up with another peck on the lips. “And you forget one small fact.” Mycroft waited patiently for him to continue. “I see you,” he answered the quiet gaze. 

“Do you?”

“Yes. I don’t just see the cold exterior you show the world. That apologetic, tea pouring, calls-his-mum-every-two-weeks-like-clockwork, British gentleman. Not the snooping, covert agent or the paper-pushing, hard-decision-making, stressed-to-the-point-of-murder, government agent. I see the man who knows Monty Python quotes, inspires loyalty in the scariest woman I’ve ever known, eats sugar puffs and enjoys my flavoured beer against his better judgment. I see the man who when his brother made a friend he took the only other man in the world who could appreciate the rarity of that out to dinner to celebrate. I see the man who didn’t even gloat when those two finally got together even though he was instrumental in its creation in the first place. I see the man who uses emoticons to make me laugh even though it completely destroyed your cold-hearted, deadly serious reputation. Don’t snort, I know that was you.” He smirked to see Mycroft blush, possibly for the first time. “I see the man who sacrificed everything he wanted for himself in order to protect someone he loved. Wrongly of course but…I see you and...I love you. ” He shrugged. "If that's enough for you, then it's enough for me."

Mycroft stared at him for several seconds. He blinked and nodded solemnly, as if suddenly coming to a hard decision.

“How soon can you pack?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture Mycroft at the beach. Giant umbrella over his head, tiny umbrella in his drink, Greg in swim trunks with little umbrellas on them. He's in heaven. *sigh* **Even though he doesn't deserve it because he's a bastard!**  
>  But yeah, they had a blast on vacation. Much make-up sex was had by all. Check out the epilogue next. It's a hoot.


	7. Epilogue: Possession with the Intent to Supply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Dinner at Baker Street. Or as I like to call it: How to Make Friends and Influence your Little Brother to be Ill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft announce themselves to friends and family. It does not go well for Sherlock.

“This is by far the most devious thing we’ve ever done,” he whispered against the skin of Mycroft’s neck, just below his ear. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

He practically purred under Greg’s lips. “Absolutely. Are you?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” Greg replied. And with that he knocked on the door to 221B.

Mycroft pulled his lips back to Greg's own and they snogged in the doorway until the door opened. Greg could hear the chatter beyond- Mrs. Hudson telling someone they looked dashing, Molly agreeing, Sherlock groaning in that dramatic Holmesian style- but the guardian of the doorway was strangely silent. Greg pulled away enough to look over, his arm remained firmly around Mycroft’s back, and took in John’s gaping fish mouth. His eyes were wide with horror, the likes of which only finding a loved one dead should cause.

“I brought a plus one. Hope you don’t mind.” Greg gave a wide grin.

“John,” My greeted pleasantly. “I do hope you appreciate this, you know how I hate Christmas dinners.”

John’s hand came up automatically to take the bottle of mulled wine he’d handed over - they’d attempted to make their own, which had ended in disaster, so this one they’d picked up from the store before coming - but the look of horror hadn’t softened at all. He made no move to allow them entrance either.

Sherlock called out eventually. “What’s the matter with you? Is it the ghost of Christmas past?”

He was smiling at his own joke when he made his way over, until he saw what had John shitting himself. Mycroft pecked Greg on the cheek in a show of true infantile petulance and Sherlock’s reaction did not disappoint.

“Ha!”

And then his eyes rolled and he dropped to the floor like his strings had been cut. He hit hard and that was probably the only thing that could have jogged John from his stupor. He sat the wine on the coffee table and dropped down to check Sherlock over, slapped at his cheek and murmured his name over and over. He glared up at the two of them as if they’d planned it out from the start. To be fair, they had. Greg looked over at Mycroft and when he looked back it was with one of the sheerest form of pleasure he’d seen on the man outside the bedroom, or possibly ever.

“The best Christmas I could have hoped for,” he whispered to Greg.

“I’m glad,” he whispered back and pecked him on the lips once more before stepping over Sherlock’s legs and into the room.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to spot them. Her shocked cry at seeing their hands clasped together caused everyone else to turn and look. Greg was shocked himself to see Cal and Dimmock seated at the kitchen table. Cal was unabashedly grinning. Dimmock looked as poleaxed as John had, though less horrified, considering.

Cal clapped in excitement. “This is going to be the gayest Christmas ever.”

Greg snorted out a laugh, pulled up a chair and motioned for Mycroft to sit. Molly watched as Greg placed his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders and squeezed. He looked down at her and smiled, which she returned with such glee he had to give another laugh. Mrs. Hudson jumped up and enveloped them both somehow in a huge hug. Mycroft didn’t seem to know where to put his hands as she sobbed incoherently into Greg’s coat.

“I’m going to be ill, I’m going to be ill,” Sherlock caterwauled from the sitting room on his way down the hall. John followed behind and glared at them from the doorway on his way to the loo.

“The very best Christmas,” My whispered up at Greg.                                                       

 

                                                                                                               ~*~ 

 

All told it was a pleasant dinner. Sherlock refused to leave his room until Mycroft and Greg stopped touching each other, which they compromised on by sitting across the table from one another. Sherlock immediately called them out for playing footsie under the table though so apparently that was right out. Mycroft seemed to take the ‘rule’ in stride, as Greg frequently found himself the owner of a friendly instep every few minutes, though Mycroft’s posture and visage above the table would have been at home at a UN meeting. Greg found it was hard to keep the smirk off his face.

Sherlock grumbled over the ‘guests’ for the remainder of the night. Apparently inviting Cal had been John’s idea and he was none too thrilled with that announcement either.

Everyone else was having a grand time. Greg even found that any jealousy he might have felt when Cal and Mycroft spoke evaporated when he noted the way Cal included him and Dimmock as well. It helped to assuage his fears that Mycroft was civilly pleasant towards the man while under the table his toes were making nice with Greg’s inner thigh.

“So, boys, how long has this been going on then?” Mrs. Hudson asked completely without tact after her fourth glass of wine.

Everyone looked at each other but then down at their nearly empty plates; all clearly too curious to chastise her over the social gaffe.

Greg rolled his eyes and started to change the subject but was surprised to hear Mycroft speak up.

“I couldn’t say when it started for Gregory,” he paused briefly when Sherlock clapped his hands over his ears like a child, “but for me it was near instantaneous.”

“You lie,” Greg argued but he couldn’t help but smile.

Mycroft smiled. His posture spoke of a languid, casual grace, but the smile was a secret affair, something you saved for private declarations. “You were very brave in the face of my deviousness. And clever. You knew right away who I was. That was surprising. I liked you right away, I must admit.”

He wished he’d known that sooner. They’d lost a lot of time being stubborn.

“I wasn’t very nice.” Greg gave a sad smile. _I will never stop apologizing for that_.

“Nice is boring,” he replied. _You will stop or I’ll make you stop_.

Mrs. Hudson ‘awwed’ over them. “What about you, Inspector?”

He glanced away from the heat in Mycroft’s gaze in surprise. “Me?”

“Well yes, dear. When did you know?” She grinned at him in adoration, as if loving Mycroft deserved some sort of award. He supposed most would see it that way. He looked back at My and matched his grin. Their feet met under the table and tangled.

“It was somewhere between a hamburger, peach beer and an omelet,” he told her vaguely.

“Oh, you boys and your stomachs,” she admonished with a wave. Molly tittered. The men all shared a brief understanding glance.

“To be honest, it was probably all the texting,” he admitted, sharing another look with Mycroft. “He’s a fantastic flirt.”

“Agh!” Sherlock groaned, clearly still able to hear the conversation. “This is rubbish. Mycroft never texts when he can call. It probably wasn’t even him on the other line.”

Greg and Mycroft laughed simultaneously at that, causing a brilliant scowl from Sherlock, whose hands were still up over his ears like a toddler.

“Another attempt to keep him at a distance, brother dear,” Mycroft informed him over his wine glass. “It failed spectacularly.”

They’d had a long talk over the texting issue. When Arabella - she’d always been Arabella to Greg and she always would be - personally handed him a thick manila envelope containing surveillance photos of her boss smirking at his mobile during important meetings it was hard not to believe the truth. Mycroft had admitted to lying about all that but with the photos Greg had proof. Arabella herself had denied ever seeing a text between them, though she had admitted to being curious. It went a long way towards Greg forgiving the heartbreaking lie that the texts had been fake. Mycroft had gone the extra mile and introduced Greg to the bloody Prime Minister just so the man could, confusingly, admit Mr. Holmes had indeed spit Earl Grey all over the table between them, spotting the knees of one of his best suits. Greg had laughed for hours afterward. He chuckled again at the memory and Mycroft nudged him under the table with a grin, knowing full well where his head was at.

Sherlock finally snapped. “You told me caring wasn’t an advantage,” he bellowed at his brother. 

“I was so wrong,” Mycroft admitted aloud to the whole room, eyes locked with Greg’s.

Sherlock chuckled loudly again and then slumped, dead weight, over the side of his chair. John scrambled to catch him, everyone gasped, and Mycroft smiled all the while.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he addressed the wide eyed woman as if his brother hadn’t fainted stone cold on the kitchen floor, “have you been to Aruba? We’ve just been and, I admit, I found it quite invigorating.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finding out about Greg and Mycroft is literally one of my favorite things about Mystrade fics. Like the literal best. 
> 
> Whew. All done. I really hoped you guys liked this. It seemed like a weird thing to do, basically skipping over the relationship parts but I felt like the better story lied with the build-up and the tear down. So...yeah. Telling this tale from Mycroft's POV would have been terrible btw. It might not have been obvious from Greg's POV but My was 100% in agony the whole time, except when they were together. 
> 
> I'd like to point something out here that I didn't get to say in the story because there didn't seem a good place to fit it in. But I don't think Cal was right about Mycroft hating his 'predilections'. I think he just slept with Cal on the sly because he's not a machine but he couldn't bare the thought of starting another relationship. So he did the bare minimum of sexual conduct and that was it. Until Greg obviously. Poor thing. But there you have it. Hope you enjoyed. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I expect lots of squishy cuddles from Stella and Ted over this story. It took months of aggravation to produce.  
> That's my smart ass way of saying, if you liked the story please let me know. I live for the feedback.  
> I'm nearly always on Tumblr is you guys are curious. Come say hi. [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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